A Caesura

The congregation says: You seem to have no place to insert this enema.

A simple conjuring would do, but I abjure.

Dividing wallpaper between two cherubim can be such a bore. So I relent: Make two wounds, two hollows, and maw away!

A congregant sidesteps a refined and luminous dessert that has divided the household against itself. Another, sinews aglow, fuses vulgar carbohydrates and overpowers all other macronutrients.

Virgil decides to make a wager: I bet two more light-years on when the procession will begin—a normal lifetime!

I become aware of the expectations.

I corrode and quicksand on the threshold—two seconds short of aplomb. A curtain is raised to the vilest of audiences.

A spirochete tells a virus: A serpent, a wren, and two sexolets walk into a bar …

The orchestra strikes up a deafening rendition of “Get Dancin’.” Dry, wind-blown, leaves gyre in the corners.

The Cardinal slavers, the Archbishop tweets, and a vineyard prodigy asks for more time.

The genealogy and extinction of the great auks is on everyone’s mind.

I close my eyes during a caesura.

What I’m Reading:

“My god, he was still
there. Like something prayed for
by a man with no mouth.”

— Ocean Vuong / “The Bull” / Time Is A Mother