How to Be a Good Mother to Me
I deface decidedly the limestone table every morning. I fail to sign my
name with a gouge I fail to account, mornings, for. Every one—morning—that
awake I do that, and I am decisively a morning person.
I drive a truck with eighteen wheels, though suspect that one has, or has
very nearly, rolled neatly completely off and away.
My single nights I spend together with many good wives and young, different
races. I order them to spread their selves, and each other, and generally
circle that stuff around in my face, or the pansexual face of each other.
I strafingly trace the tones of their holes with the up-flipped tip of my
Mornings, I awake, and stick around and stiffly surround the table. I video
chat with my mother, and the girlfriend, and they are mostly the same experience. "Say
your prayers for me, uh, I think I am going to be run over by a car, my
mother might say. The girlfriend I command daringly to dance.
It is raining, or unoriginally on fire, outside. I hide inside to wipe wetly
I am often mistaken, indoors, for someone who is watching someone else spread
their stubbly stuff nudely on full-screen in the rain.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 28 | Spring 2010