Cracked nut, in the abalone house, the ear shell where I counted sand, there was an incident with a needled bird wing. This adheres to a sutured feeling, the kind of stuttering the girl has taken up since the boy refuses to return her calls. / There wan an incident where we swallowed antiseptic and hoodwinked. Later, we were taken away with the furniture.
/ I adopt the sun as ball. I want to request a nearer object, a syllable that
looks like heat. I should think you'd be eager to cooperate. /
Kristen Orser's nose is running. She is trying her hardest to sit still. She is the author of Folded Into Your Midwestern Thunderstorm (Greying Ghost Press); Squint (Dancing Girl Press); Winter, Another Wall (blossombones); Wilted Things (Scantily Clad Press); and E AT I (Wyrd Tree Press). If you see her, offer her a tissue.
"I have been thinking of spooky things and that, in itself, became spooky. Recently, I killed a spider. It's not uncommon for me to do this even though I try to pretend a more Buddha-like presence. The spooky thing is, the spider was intertwined with another spider, but that spider was dead. It was, I think, a case of necrophilia. I can't be certain of this, but do you have a better explanation?"