The sadness was showing under your skin.
That was the day I found conclusive evidence
that my skull was composed of red dirt diphthongs,
pesticide residues, darned old socks, unfollowed
tweets, the top three rows of the medicine chest,
several Cthulhoid entities, cheese wheel turning,
wafts of methane, ponds of liquid nitrogen,
the seedier parts of Philadelphia, Mars in retrograde,
Titania, Oberon, Descartes, Lorca, half-baked conclusions,
Jesus wept, breadcrumbs disappeared, sighs in the night,
a squeak on the back stairs, a light from the sewer grate,
lumpy dharma, governor in the Big House, an imminent
sneer, a lurking smirk, a halo flips a butterfly
knife, conscience lying there like a big fried egg,
awareness not capable of self-rule, whatnots, gimcracks,
baubles, knick-knacks, trifles, bygones, gewgaws, tchotchkes,
furbelows, curios, flummeries, doohickies, thingamabobs,
sweaty beginnings, rafters of laughter, acres of ache, corrupted
files, floppy assumptions, and an entire battalion of anticlimaxes.
William Merricle is the author of several chapbooks, including Chaos Theory (Nightballet Press, 2013), and the upcoming Fractured Fairy Tales (Crisis Chronicles Press). His work has appeared in many publications, including Pudding Magazine, Portland Review, and Slipstream. He assumes there is someone praying for him.
Your One Phone Call 