I write out of spite, not delight. A kite? I’d fly it to the stars. Or Mars. It’s up to the string—a thing that certainly would knot. Or not.
A pig pile of stuffed animals wrastled for the pyramid’s top. Stop—nothing to see here. Listen close. The drip of rain, it’ll stain. But only if it’s blood.
I wring out my neck like a waterlogged rag. It’s a drag, of course. Off of a cigarette, I lit the coal of it orange, so pretty— but don’t touch.
Tag, you’re it. Run a campaign of which you’re proud. If not, at least be well-endowed.