Mow a Field of Flux

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after John Olson

Today I swallowed a considerable amount of electricity. It was given to me by the King of Rain. This is why I am tucked inside this telescope, searching for a vial of ether to force the voltage out of my system. A ribcage keeps me company. It clacks against coat hangers when I cough enzymes like liquid cherubs. What I mean to say is from my telescope suite I can exhume a certain degree of the moon’s friction. One in three lycanthropes agree. If ribcage gets kinky I gauze my thighmeat with parabolas. Do-rag my heart in the aphorisms of a magnum swan. If hungry there are doorbells to be plucked, succulent when sweated in a demi glaze of exclamations and tiger jelly. Blue vapors slur my name when they tattoo the moment imperious with the cream of soap. I am keenly aware the light that hangs above me is secretly a shark’s fin and any second now the floor will twinkle with darts, open up and drop me into David Lynch’s Bar Mitzvah. This is where I prefer to conduct my black math. This is not a simple task. Like plucking ore through your tear ducts. Like fucking a wall of rubber knives in a glitter factory. Like lighting the candles only to blow out the cake. What I mean to say is civilization died the day it made too much sense. This is all very common knowledge: clowns holding language hostage with laminated water pistols. Gargoyles kissing like quantum feathers under the bleachers. Flaming tongues assassinated with the flaccid spray of a half pumped Super Soaker. What I mean to say is someone put gum in my shoes so I renounce my feet, let my skull float away like a rogue tulip. Let us inveigle the beach for echoes in a sea shell. Let us lavish the forehead with fine oils and the tumult of controlled panic. Let us tickle this mirror until it slithers into the furnace. Let us saw our shadows in half while listening to the Beach Boys. At its core love is caramel. At its core ink is blood. Tuck reality into your kneecaps and chew on a jamboree. The itch to mow a field of flux is only natural. Now open your mouth to receive this gift of anxious tendrils.

The Author

Matthew is authors of Escapologies (Red Bird Chapbooks) and the forthcoming Infinity’s Jukebox (Passenger Side Books). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ninth Letter, PANK, Kill authors, Gargoyle, Hobart, NAP, and others. He is managing editor of Mixed Fruit, co-founder of Cloud Rodeo, a reader for PANK, and NPR’s 3 minute fiction. He currently attends the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

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