Disconnected, getting a cue to lay down in the family room, feeling the ground buzz from within the sarcophagus. I can only catch their drift if I pull back the matted rug and touch the submarine steel. I get a quick shock, fizzing up into rabies sputum, catching tatters of thin exchanges
‘I want to guess your age
‘with or without your shades drawn
‘after they come for you
There’s something in the air, so I hold my breath, but I can’t hold it forever. Microorganisms move from the grooves in the radio dial to under my fingernails finally into my lungs. I get another cue. Put the rug back how it was. Lay down. Entered too soon. Not ready not yet
More about: Justin Wiggan
