A Quiet Evening Twisted by Neon Blobs in Oakville, Washington
I fixed the containment grid, but something happened to my eyes. On the way home I noticed these orbs in my driveway. I touched one. it burned, and a jolt of electricity shot through me. There was something crawling into my mouth, a jelly blob. I couldn’t stop it.A neon large intestine flew down from the sycamore tree and tried to stab me with a potato latke, a burnt one. I called the saints. I rolled some quarters. It was Wednesday.Boomerangels.They hissed and snapped. They circled my car, my house, trying to get in. I cowered on the floor in house. I couldn’t breathe I was so scared.More snakes arrived. The wind was hot, but the rain never fell. Somehow they got in through the door. They attacked me. I blacked out. When I awoke, they were gone.I made some pancakes. I hummed tunes.
.
Neon doldrums
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A lovely parlor is useless without lovely lighting.I smeared ghosts with wine, talked with sparks flying from my throat like struck horses.Fifteen thousand empty nights.Fifteen thousand empty glasses.I sold my soul to a florist. She felt uneasy about the exchange but took it nonetheless. I adorned this table as a ghost floral arrangement for fifteen thousand days and nights.
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The creaking of a dozen rocking chairs, the smell of eucalyptus and creosote, the walls running with fetid oily sweat. Outside, a strange gelatinous substance rained down and filled the gutters and rain barrel. It tasted like star fruit.
I shall never see sunlight. I live in the darkness in an old rotten piece of fruit.
Fifty State Banana 