Rabbit Ears

Something wants in.

What can you do with cold gray writhing, cold green water settling into foam as algae hum Tommy Dorsey to her, when in her sleep now in her window her husband rolls insensate where Lake Erie and the Black River kiss? What is it in the frame that still leaks beyond it and lets fall from its open palms piles of smoke as the trestles rust the sky? Does she want to be mingled with his? Will my sleep taste empty?

To him it was Lake Erie, not the English Channel, that swallowed Glenn Miller. He couldn’t look me in the face but the edges of his voice flickered with passionate intensity and sunshine freckled with the wind rotating fragrant green leaves deranged enough of the day’s shadows to keep her from doing anything more than guessing that he was the one who was her husband, she could never really be sure. I cover my mouth. To him it was all perfectly clear how these jets could crack the sky up and. We want her to be mingled with his.

In the bottom of her window the English Channel is just static. Sometimes he would mold tinfoil around the antennas and out of the scratching of radiance at the edges of happening voices would gather words that we would bark our shins on in the dark. Something wants in.

I am filled with passionate intensity.

From The Black River Flying Ointment Corporation, Volume 2