pushing my finger through your doorbell so long that my toenails have curled through my shoes into the welcome mat. the sea in welcome coughed a little and an excuse me echoed off marble. the title waved.
inside, the kleptocrats are losing to a foreigner, up seven percent in the polls. they have met with the foreigner several times, but never here.
outside, they pass around their communal tongue. they intend to steal another set tongues from a hung jury, and they hope to not lose any this time.
in a submarine off the coast of welcome, a war story is being told to a young girl. She’s clutching a tamagotchi for her life. [the soldier makes it seem harrowing until the refugees are bellied on the embassy floor.] this is pre-birth, or pre-tellusfish, prayer Qu’est-ce que c’est. she is an evolving ohm.
inside, the kleptocrats are indelicate. they are thieving thoughts. I would like very much not to stammer when they wheeze baleful ideas but they have taxed my breath.
outside, still waiting to say the wrong thing. a bubblehead walks behind my back on the sidewalk, and she seems surprised. I steal her surprise.
there exists a massive popsicle at the earth’s northernmost point in which hundreds of submarines are encased in a pellucid inverted flower pot, caught in a frozen soil of sorts. when schools of fish approach, the naval people watch from their portholes as a small town would from porches. your apartment building opted for the foyer and a cheap welcome mat.
The kleptocrats have dirt, knowing that you could defrost an army by dancing on the ice caps. laying on your welcome mat, bellied on drifting ice chunks.
you are as foreign as my thoughts, but nonethellless a thief of hearts.
inside, a covert operation has gone horribly wrong. mercenaries are biting their nails. secret agents are breaking down. there are a million perfect ways you could walk down those stairs and all of them have been published under my nose.
outside, a smile.
apr19 – brennan mcmullen