If distance had four wheels and the rear left popped at 65 miles per hour outside a gated community, would the generosity vector collide with the greed scalar before our grill crumpled into that into that 450 year old Maple blooming in fall? Would the app for adding text and/or gif to selfie work underwater if electric eels could tick boxes? I’m sure renewable energy companies, the ones who planted the windmills on tundras with red strobe lights that trigger family feuds are studying the data. Double fin verification seems to be the new hot security device. Often, putting a pillow between the ass and bench plank will silence unwanted projectiles. Every fish in the lake is anxious, scrolling, or gone.
On a borrowed clipboard, draw a huge S. Hold it up to the camera, all my mentors said to carry a clipboard everywhere you go, it opens doors, people ask directions, ask openly for jobs, favours, investment—-you look like you know what you’re doing. And I do. I did. I will. May we join?
In the morning, after Being There, after admitting the doctor said I have rice pudding stuffed between my ears, after not playing games with words to protect myself, after all on screen you look much smaller in real life, after the roots were grafted and roses deadheaded, after incorrigible optimism interviewed soiled myth, after we called each other civil, after all the unrecorded sex—-we stood barefoot and mirrored, mumbling ridiculous promises into another rising sun, having breed another survival tip.
David Morgan O’Connor is from a small village on Lake Huron. After many nomadic years, he is based in Albuquerque, where a novel and MFA progresses. His writing has appeared in; Barcelona Metropolitan, Collective Exiles, Across the Margin, Headland, Cecile’s Writers, Bohemia, Beechwood, Fiction Magazine, After the Pause, The Great American Lit Mag (Pushcart nomination) , The New Quarterly and The Guardian. Tweeting @dmoconnorwrites.