The pigeon left my body because there were no crumbs to eat. Tiny morsels of thoughts never made it to the brainstem. The ant left my body because there was no line to follow. My inner ear pointed south. The sparrow left my body because there was no song to sing. Inserted coins decompressed vocal chords into Fisher Price’s my first guitar. The badger left my body because he had already dug deep enough. Therapy sessions were a buck a minute. The mole rat left my body because it was too illuminating. New therapy sessions were available at bulk rates. A gushy mess was left to clean up in Aisle five. The kidneys were the worst of it. Spilled guts harden: the minerals, misplaced. Now I am a cairn-a statue of mental health day. A child drew a lipstick smile on the wrong sized stone. I was put in Clearance near the plastic squirrels. That is how I’ve always wanted to be passed over: for my resale value.
My feet are on the floor unless I am floating. Our hovercrafts are old, not nearly as shiny as they are in the Scientists of America Club but span fake feathered wings to be ironic since all birds are dead. I hover over false petroleum made light. I turn on the first broken lamp with my third eye and warm light shoots out of my mouth. My voice light reaches every corner of the room. I turn on the second lamp and porcupine quills grow from my fingernails. My touch is prickly and never long enough. I turn on the third lamp and I receive a phone call made from a pay phone. The voice on the other end says there is a book on Jackson Pollack’s strudel recipes on the table in front of me. There is only one recipe on page forty-two. It just says Bake. The end result is death. I follow the recipe to find you. My hovercraft is like a silver eagle drinking liquid mice. My hovercraft contains a full spice rack. Cumin is overrated and its spies are everywhere.