A Glimmering Corridor Invites You In

I’m sleeping in the Room of Salted Flesh
watching a garish thing,
basically a feathered woman.

Basically a feathered woman
putting on another skin.

And so I communicate to you with my vomit
altering color and texture to create a code
making my ideas as concrete as possible.

My idea is that we should go to the aquarium, the beach.

And now at the beach I watch someone pull a cigarette butt from the nose of a sea turtle using a pliers while the sea turtle bleeds and resists. I mean blood runs from the sea turtle’s nose while the sea turtle jerks and cries with pain. My relationship to the sea turtle: now it’s a bomb I’ve never dropped.

I’ve hidden microfilm in all the places in a chicken that you could possibly hide microfilm. As punishment, my eyes burrow deep within the pockets of my face.

Maybe one of you is a prison guard and the other a cop. Having gone to school together, you recognize one another. And eventually begin sleeping together. When you sleep together, you remember the smell of Pine Sol from when you were just starting to crawl. You smell the scent of Pine Sol and keep enjoying one another; you enjoy one another so much. There’s a third character in this stupid scene, though, too. That character wears a t-shirt that says “I paint so that I don’t snap.” This character watches you the prisoner and you the guard fucking. Sitting on a train, he returns to his true form, the form of a child. He speculates to his friend: “If my family were rich, I’d wake up in the morning and get a hundred dollar bill instead of a one dollar bill.”

But no one in this scene is rich, and each character stashes their money deep within their heart, so that it is no longer just a piece of paper but a continuous sine wave pulsing at a frequency that comes from a mysterious part of the brain.

When I see this scene a stream of water shoots out of my fingertip, freezes, and forms an ice gun. Yet despite the ice along the line of my hand, I’m sweating full force.

And when I look at the hardwood floor underneath me, my sweat has pooled, I’m slipping in it, it’s forming shapes, pools the shape of children doing acrobatics. Liquid children and then my skin raising into gooseflesh, nuggets also shaped like children, terrible terrible children who speculate on what would be different if their families were rich.

And wearing my camo jacket to bed,
I dream myself out in an iron bed that folds down from the wall.
Here we are dreaming in this iron bed.

I’m sleeping in the Hammer Distro
watching myself cry in the mirror.

Here I create power ball,
a game. Here I bend my knees, then unbend them
and trust my vicious body
to walk the earth.

MARIE BUCK
Marie Buck is the author of Life & Style (Patrick Lovelace Editions 2009) and Portrait of Doom (Krupskaya 2015). 

Title: A Glimmering Corridor Invites You In.