Ars Poetica

Story takes her skin. Story takes her bones. She finds her toes and her fingertips. When she speaks, like salmon running, the dead and the living converge. The river of memory rocks the hunger of claws and tongues. Electricity swallows itself back through its double-prod picana, bullets dislodge themselves from their chore of destroying the same day over and over again, and from the caverns of fear and revision, skin resurrects the skin. Each sentence closes in like the crawl of split skin sealing its red, wet avulsion. The enormity of the pending night scares the seven assassins on trial. They understand that in hell, they will eat their own throats.