I contracted a staff infection when my lover paid a visit last week.  I wasn’t expecting her and remained preserved in my bedroom with the curtains drawn.

Wading onto split pavement, Opal removed her legs from the cream leather car, unravelling an ever apologetic torso.  She was black wrapped, craning a pipe neck to conduct a revelatory symphony of vertebrae. Her throat plucked like a loud harp.  Clutched in her right hand, Opal held a small pair of red rubber cleaning gloves.  Birds predicted the gloves to metronome her outer thigh by sticking and hopping when she walked.  With slurping delight like the one time we made love in her childhood crib.

Opal whimpered, vibrating her jawline during closed eyes.

Said to nothing, “I remember nothing.”

[Creatures know when they are electric, so therefore Opal…]

Her left master finger, calcified into extension and sheathed in a white handkerchief, drew the lady forward. When in motion, Opal had grace enough to interrupt a pedestrian and set him to wondering who taught the woman to walk in the first place.  “As if she’d learned aquatically”, he’d whisper to nothing, now keenly aware of the position of the flaccid cock drooping inside his golfing shorts.

Opal snapped her dentures twice.

Opal clicked her red heels.

Opal fell into my flower garden.

Opal killed a man in a burgundy cardigan sweater.

Opal sipped tepid water from a glass on my porch in May.

Mounting the front deck, Opal drove two peg-nail heels into the rotting wooden slats. She imagined the ground, submitting; the white porch railing, observing; the black metal mailbox, hating; the crooked brick (key-hider), recoiling; the entire month of May, eulogizing, sipping elixir with a pair of moist ribbon lips, removed from securing a blond ponytail atop her pill-boxed summertime scalp.  During closed eyes, she reached a finger for the doorbell.  The corners of her lips parting.

When we were lovers, Opal asked if I would contain her during the month of May by consuming that cocktail each night in bed while wearing a pair of black spandex shorts.  I said yes (had become already drunk and red and swollen and all that). I had captured myself in harsh nets and was unable to escape.  She would never bind me, the perfect faggot.  The woman walked aquatic into the bathroom and emerged, wet, and holding a glass.  Beaming, she padded naked to my bedside and lit a tall candle.  My vision, a vase in splintered kaleidoscopes, was shape-shifting and becoming violently hued with each timed sip of liquid.  Drunk next to her again.


                      Opal hushed me, wiped my intentional drip with a soft cloth.

Opal hushed me, wiped my intentional drip with a ssssssoft ____ oth

Hush me, drip sssssss ___oth

I plunged deeper to the fabric to hide my  {BLANK BLANK BLANK BLANK BLANK}

{on stage, I become fearfully comfortable}



Porch Next May:

her finger alit and ghost-pressed an illuminated yellow circle.  The hand was unnerved, detached from its female carrier.  It was a conch shell, twice evacuated by cursed animals, wearing the slightest scintillation of pink afterbirth.  The instrument smelled of garden weeds and wore a glove of hot saliva that refused to drip.

Three sibling black birds perched in a berried holly bush.  They provided me with all of these pornographic details while I hid inside the house.  I didn’t see any colors.  The birds are authors.  The birds might be writers.  I was wearing a pair of black spandex shorts and weeping about my dead daddy when the animals broke through a glass window.  The shards sliced my cheeks as I shot my face through that broken thing—



I saw the finger, I slapped my own cheek, twice with an open palm. My face did not even turn.  Had already become drunk and red and swollen and all that. I never scream at myself.

God damn it, Opal on my porch with an extended plaster finger in motion.

Who taught her to walk in the first place?