The jinns go into my ears and halt my copulation. I become a useless nude or a fish, angular with light.
In a veil of blue shadows that I wear by the window. The frost comes to feel my testicles.
Demons gain weight in my stomach and esophagus, like a peach flush with water.
But you are tired, a demonstration that windows make all women tired.
On another plane you would be fire in a pine forest now. But we are here and not in the place where the ostrich wears silver on its ankles.
The jinns hear all of this, blessed with wide ears and they speak:
“We want the surrender of the sun to the slower stars, and to the pace of our lives give the speed of a wheel.”
You don’t catch it, girl with stitches, you are exhausted and you barely spoke.
Your wives are like a field for you. Approach them in the soft months, in the midst of drought and flailing pink mackerels. Guard against the possums. It is known that the possums bring their nipples into shade. Give your sons words to build fences, and your daughters tight strings to speak to the owls. Approach your women from the pine trees and from the irrigation ditch. If you go anywhere together it is better than going a thousand miles alone.
Iverson is hiding in a Chinese apple, but his red tattoo pulls him out. Five tigers with wings come from Xinjiang to steal him away. They rip him apart and make threes with his arms. And the fans scream out, they sound like the bells of Las Vegas.
Gregory Zorko is a writer and history student. He is currently applying to graduate schools seeking a master’s degree in European History while trying to publish more of his work.