I. Why The Sausage Was Made
Kevlar stops bullets, spider silk more so, but molars, most of all, make castle walls. You sip oatmeal through a boba straw, jaw-broken, psychosomatically satisfied without proper sustenance. Bone-scraping, marrow-slaking, seeds never sewn between crushing wisdom at the back of your jaw, yet still that dull, drilling ache. Maybe bullets and chocolate-frosted sugar bombs are not in the demolition crew’s toolbox– maybe a bath in ancestral addiction is all it takes to show why the sausage was made.
II. King Soopers, 10:40 PM
Clair de lune hums hazily over the intercom in the produce aisle. The lights flicker when the showers come abruptly on. You are as your ancestors could never have been; amongst an almost alien bounty at arm’s length. Yet why still do you feel the eyes of coyotes every time a cart wheel creaks? Night, usurped— still bleeding through fluorescent obsolescence.
III. Look Alive
Even the jogger falls prey to the mountain lion, ears stuffed with headset stimulus, a hooded pocket of sensory isolation. But light hurts familiar monsters, as it always has. So keep gumming down that saccharine synth from a needle-sharp screen. Every angle of your bedroom is foreign, though you’ve faced every facet of its unfurnished walls. Your cerebrum cleaved from your cerebellum, your perception prickles with the syrupy senses of some bluer world. The irony of your sunken mattress hovers just out of sight– not a sarcophagus, but a server’s platter for the salivating scratchers at the window.