Below-grade connection

Linear birdflight, haze in the hazelnut, some fumbling in a bag, pressed heated air rear of the jet engine: actual people in that house over there swinging their bats, nursing their babies on our yard: they’re us, we say, we shrug, when does that become a problem? Ask Mario, maybe, nicknamed “Wasabi” (for his gentleness), not to say he’s not thorough. He’s a very large man with a high voice. After the hash marks, scan the other scannables. A woman wearing a skirt holds it to pee, is how you know she’s no fictive flutterthing. An actual SUV hits the light just so, not the green light, the afternoon light reflecting dumbfoundingly on the other actuals. Dissemination works; so do underground runners. The former dancer’s translucent skirt reveals her thong, revealing her shapely buttock. A shuffler shifts right foot beckett, left bunion, sullenly. I was nosing around the closet when I found notes revealing their conspiracy, yet I still find them both very attractive. With all the static it has been easy to feel lost in a grand, symphony-like overlooking, just one more soldier on the parade ground, wait, this sounds like it’s only me in all my diversionary appearances, gabbing along in the corner, occasionally more emphatic, like the big warts a-growing on the cheek and chin of a sweet-eating grandma who happens to have left her belt off today. As for your trance electronica, it’s a good thing the lyrics challenge discernment, since when you get them they lack a how-you-say “crispiness.” Then I was in a forest, though each tree was a human statue, some adjusting their hair with their crinkled fingers, whispering into their phones. I lay down on moss by a brook. The moss curled around me like a field of pubic hair, the warm stream widened, and I went in, like a baby in reverse. Ed reminded me the self isn’t as solid as it’s cracked up to be, whoever “Ed” is, wherever I have gone, whether I have returned to tell you, whatever part of your body I am scratching now, if that is you I have found, under the table.

David McAleavey

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