SOUNDS OF SMOKY by RYAN MORRIS
ach! i have become it, readying.
a great welcome awakening in isolation set to self-dispel. dating itself an involuntary act of welcoming. a night of insightful theatre til a nightcap on a rooftop bar dates one as one out dates -- dating, perceives and wills into being and spills it onto collared tartan column colors. stains of bourbon and the bioelectrical burning of eels. esophageal chemical scalds, mediocre in lieu of sobriety. medically entering into a secondary severity.
hobbies date one stranger than radiocarbon. stronger. predilection for more indirect forms of affection. fingers leaving graphite digit streaks on pillowcase and shake within the pockets to mellow. wallowing not really allowed here, as indicated by the sign. following is alright. sadness fine if masked in cellophane and carried to term in a margarita shaker, expounded in the garlic tasting air and exposed to lime.
it's not so hard -- see and look how the footprints left in the sand just about right themselves up. remain proud of these memories or they will body you and reinstate heartbeats with rhythmic animal clicking of whiskey stones.
at the bar listening awash in languages of various wyverns. if we hold a string together you stand still and i walk around the patrons' tangles all are made literal organic processes. truly and irreversibly transgressive boundary patterns of the hardwood turned reverent. counting grains of rice in a pressure cooker hourglass stood up on its most uncomfortable end.
think i'd like to leave but somehow seems like way way worse, ya know. when the moment finally arrives the principle of the matter will find me indolent and spitting, psychopomp in and of my own percussive circumstances.
the atmosphere overall here is fine. ten stars. i am sorry to have been ignoring you but i will be speaking to you soon and i hope things are alright. look for the coming of my outside sedan on the third day, when all hope seems utter and abjectly lost. i will struggle to parallel park for near on length of a geologic period but when i finally reach your door my shrieking heels will summon the army of the dead to our side and we will become enstormed.
and you will know that there is a dog. perhaps outside, in the darkness, dragonfaced below the single-celled shadow of the woods, where we look from the kitchen window but cannot supersede the source. and he is great. and when we put him puzzle piece like together in the early morning light he will be so good for us. soft and childlike, outstanding, and very, very warm.
Ryan Scott Morris is a North Carolina writer based in the Research Triangle. He attended Appalachian State University, and his work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Scalawag Magazine and Timothy McSweeney's Internet Tendency. He lives in a little white house with a baby blue porch.