A stomach digesting itself in infinite
capacities. Crudely carved pornographic
shapes etched deeply into the stalls
of bathrooms in public school buildings.
They’ve since stopped replacing them
because the way they’re bolted in makes
them annoying to undo.
Instead they have detention sentences
where the guilty use files and scratch
the vile images out like words they didn’t
need.
What a perfect thing to feed,
that piece of us still afraid of the silence.
Incapable of existing in present tense,
we stare deeply into the water fall,
but miss it entirely.
Too distracted by the calling at our backs
trying desperately to convince us to
turn around. We return to the ever
present cage.
An owl’s talons grip the side of the boat,
and a cloaked figure rows towards
the nothing.
They float.
Teleporting Typewriter 