Tubercular Dream
There were no soft monsters last night—but a hue blue neural synapse saved a receding shadow.
I was sitting on a bar in a bird cage. I was naked. A black shape behind me, on my shoulder, picked at my neck.
A dripping voice: You shouldn’t hold it like that.
A lilting bass-drawl: It’s a woodpecker. It’s a blackbird.
It sank its talons—a jackhammer-mad bird. The pain searing. Electric. My transparent hands swatting at air.
What I’m Reading:
“War A is going well and no longer a threat, small and mature. Like a bonsai. War B is in full flower. Its thin green shoots reaching across the ocean floor like fiber optic cable.”
— Vanessa Veselka / Zazen
thee istsfor manity reader 