that toothy yesterday…

138 Pieces

I wrote this yesterday under the influence of twin tornadoes

While hiding under the bed with my grandmother and dog

I planned a funeral as mattresses, pans and medicines strafed the air

I saw my brother’s arm impaled on a jagged rafter

The grey-green sky draped like humid laundry above

I heard telephone poles snap in succession like cannon fire

Fred, from next door, called for Annie as he flew by among the shingles and sharp detritus

A dishwasher smashed into my one remaining bedroom wall

Splintered it in 138 pieces, and disappeared into that toothy vortex…

“… history proved that epidemics have a way of recrudescing when least expected.”
— Albert Camus, The Plague

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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