Spitball Army

Mail carrier waves at me: “Happy 9/11!” I assume, as when I “Like” a friend’s Facebook post announcing his manuscript’s rejection.

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Cheap microwaves bleed x-rays, a customer avows. Know what you mean, I say. She nods, unaware it’s Day 18 of my radiation therapy.

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Pizza-induced nightmare. Werner Herzog narration. Interruption inspired by Sam Adams. Sustained wakefulness courtesy 2 AM thunder.

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Humid; in the 90s. Woman on the sidewalk in black slacks and blouse, dyed-black hair and horn rims, curses her fashion choices.

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4 PM watch alarm beeps syncopation to REM’s “Fall on Me,” blasting in the car. But I can’t recall what I’m supposed to not forget.

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Because of how it’s done at work, he now thinks of intimate activities in terms of close rates: not how often, but how successful.

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Mother is 81 today; her grandson’s 18 Friday. I suggested they swap their nearly identical ages. She liked that idea; he wouldn’t.

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“Your to funny,” she messages to me. “Their, their,” I want to respond, “I hadn’t ment to be humerus: Its just an observation.”

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They call him Mr. Hanky. He’s three years old, and all he wants for Christmas is a kitchen. Supposed specialty: sausage biscuits.

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After a grueling workday, they lean behind the dumpster, smoking and grabbing at flies. Redemption is a crushed and lifeless bug.

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