Greenback Dollar / The Pint in Your Hand by Jordan Krall It is a sight. And a sound. A movement, even. Something stirs in the corner under a blanket of blue darkness. You peel your eyes with a pen-knife and sit up in bed at attention. Before you went to sleep you had a snack. You ate the map that I sent to you from Bolivia . It was dry, wasn't it? It was slow going down. You most likely still feel pieces of it stuck in your throat, on the roof of your mouth. Theshadows in the corner of your room curl and uncurl like fingers. You can barely make out what it is. You are wearing a shirt but nothing on the lower part of your body. You planned on pleasuring yourself this evening but instead you were disturbed by an oceanic movement and squishing din in the Northwest corner of your room. Youstare at your belly, wanting to see through to the pieces of the map. If it was possible you would tear open your body in order to practice your own special form of extispicy. It would be a messy and nervous surgical divination procedure. You would take pictures. You would record it. You would make a mental note. The action in your room is increasing. The sounds are transforming into smells: bittersweet vaginal potpourri & pickled citrus. Your bowels churn nervous butter. I am coming home tonight.
It is a sight. And a sound. A movement that turns the walls of your room into pepper flakes and the hairs on your head into parasitic coinage.
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