Calendars of dirt. Mudslides infected the meat, bluebottle flies had tiny electric guitar music coming out. Jimi Hendrix pants on the roadside. It was all good if it had green fire, released toxic fumes when it burned. Moonlight through eucalyptus leaves, scent of dust. Somebody wants to talk to somebody, you can Google them—say you find a Youtube video interview and they mention your name. It’s like you almost saw them for a second. Nervous gesture with one hand repeated, as he or she looked tired and alive.

Cool like blisters. What did you want?


Time’s up.