There are eighteen particles of dust
lying between my iris and contact.
I counted.
Carefully placed mirror and magnifying glass.
Five acquired from vacuuming.
Five from cleaning out my car.
Seven from digging up the corpse of
my elementary school teacher just
to apologize for that one time
I called him a dick.
It seems that for once,
I can't recall where the last one
came from.
I guess I should probably just let it go.
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We only cook on Wednesday nights.
Fifty gallon fish tanks
filled with scissors replace our blenders.
Slabs of raw meat are hurled inside,
shaken violently.
We're pleased at the sight.
We don't mind the scars developing
on our hands from extracting
the chunks
and our blood only sweetens the
taste.
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He suggested that I should grow up.
I merely questioned his affinity toward Mudkips.
We're both sitting on the icy curb
watching cars slide into telephone poles
and trees.
If I can demonstrate experience for
something other than brick monsters and water-type pokemon,
he'll give me a ride home.
My mind goes blank as a skyscraper made
entirely of brick catches my eye.
I visualize it growing arms and yelling.
Ten.
Ten.
Ten.
I am walking home tonight.
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