Category: Garett Strickland

A thot, a thick thot arises.

“Let’s put it in the gallery.”

As tho the unknowing weren’t enough in the tangentry grown into a fog, the ellipses, they all embedding itself into the sanctity of a glitch in our wall, and mine the immediate face of it, all but invisible apart from the insurance of its accountability as a thing that could be held, for its department, as prisoner to the actions of others, their grubby digits and the like, the desire to fingerblast the totems of so-called culture on a free day, the paths we like caged tigers pace for the many minutes ‘twixt the rotation of days at a time.

Taking the blood cousin from its box, ancestral dust spiraling up my nostrils into brain, flipping switches toward what nostalgia hasn’t gone to rot, I wonder if I’m making a mistake.

Then the lash-heavy lids of its eyes heave open. It smiles, and I know. Grin growing rows. Long tongue emerging from gullet, flicking at the air to taste how long it’s been. Its tip fishes between its lumberpile teeth for bits of food or chunks of mouth and like a slick pink deformed arm it flings what it finds at my face.

The thanks, I guess, I get for this.