wake up, rod

Daumenkino Sky a pinhole camera and she doesn’t know which side she’s on. Dirt in the blood of her nailbeds, something hard beneath her soles, she should be screaming. Milk curdles for less than this: a shutter, closing night. In the all-over grey she mouths: God, I know it’s not that you don’t love me. Ruthie . Somewhere, stars. Her hips curl in on themselves like doves waiting for morning. She thinks of black and whites of Auschwitz: This is how thin you can be and still be alive . The shutter’s opening, it’s day again, black and whites of Auschwitz : bodies in piles because feet pummeled heads to escape the gas rising from vents in the floor. A thumb of moon and the ceiling looks like floor again. Ruthie, which side are you on? She should be screaming but she has eyes of mud, mouthing: Please just shut it . Even she knows there is no language light enough to float her out of this hole. Shutter, little girl, shutter.

Hello, e'erybody. for our readership, we currently have one Rod moving to SF as we speak, via car, one Rod packing to move on Friday, one Rod living as a transient in Upstate New York, and one more actually learning and doing high intellectual thinking on a daily basis. We're going to become a bi-coastal rod soon, so be on the lookout for the dual-ocean hilarity that ensues. But if posts have been a little scattershot, that's why. Secondly, this assignment. I wasn't sure if we are supposed to provide a description of said dream, so I won't. Father Cyclops Blue Styrofoam pressed in with red wires stabbing out, a mother-of-pearl sphere dangling on the end. Galway, let me not chew chicken feathers again. Slats of wood arranged on pylons, jutting out over water, a saggy bridge, water shooting up between the cracks. My Father, eyeless and screaming on the end of the pier, the beating outsize pearl clutched in my hand. The mist turns bloody from exposure to the socket, th...