I bit into creation,
But let it fall
Finding the fruit unripe.
Take Origin Myth all the way down
To the first set of lights, which is Empire.
Take a right at Empire.
The destination is on the right,
At the intersection of
Empire and Collapse.
Take your time,
We’ll probably be there awhile.
Actually, you were right.
The cobwebs in the basement aren’t afraid of me anymore. I hadn’t realized it until their laughter pinched my beliefs into nothing, twisting them between those tiny fingers. My fingers don’t bend, my knees don’t support me. None of this means anything to the rest of them, but I know you care. I know you understand. Take heart. My team delivers. The numbers are strong.
The self is a gob of shit, a residual encumbrance and encrusted excrescence, nursing poppycock, whistling reptilian opera, shaking its pelvis at the goats, fulminating at the sky. Roll it between the fingers and flick it away.
Frank Candeloro lives in Ontario. He has published work in The Danforth Review and The Ibis Head Review.