Blood Sport

Pretend you’re traveling on a business trip …

(All I can say is… stop. Stop!)

Convinced you’re lost, laying there in that Amazonian outpost — covered by a mosquito net — the masses of mosquitos, a deluge through the open windows. All that keeps you from complete ruination is the scrim of heavenly white fabric — as shear as your head feels, as empty of answers on how to get back. Your stomach roils with an invasion that can’t be stopped.

The stomach virus eats away at you from the inside, gnawing at the stuff of life within — at the hole in your heart glued over with spit and spent cartridges.

The siege inside lays waste to you, filling you up with legions of your own dead cells that are conscripted and committed to the front as fast the virus can kill them. And it kills them.

It kills them all.

A malarial waft, an unseen hand spreads hot unguent on your forehead.

Then a thick fetid smell: a melange of upturned earth with carcass of marmoset, and capybara.

(All I can say is… stop. Stop!)

Your time nears conclusion.

This is Fall, at 8:33 a.m., on 10/24/2020. Jamaica Plain, MA. (24/31)

“All words are Dada if they are correctly misused.”

— Andrei Codrescu / The Posthuman Dada Guide