Imagine the gravity bong. There’s a café table I took when
the Starbucks at Palencia got new furniture, four chairs and
everything, and then, a trophy surrounded by all, the 3-liter pitcher

filled with water, a plastic 2-liter Ginger ale bottle with the bottom cut out,
fitted like a block in a puzzle. The circle goes into the circle.

This circle pitcher with it’s circle green bottle sitting inside has a yellow
circle cap and inside of the circle cap sits a nut, the ones that come in the
standard tool kit your dad bought you for college. Inside the nut sits confetti laced

with THC, or something that is supposed to be THC. There’s about seven of us
tinging pinks out on the front porch in the dark, gossiping, whatever. She did ask

for it, now that I imagine her, round, swaying, pink in the face and hair,
mixing with browns, of the bong brimming with cannabinoids, her brown hair
mixing with the tragically menthol-green of the porch floor. Who would want

to paint these steps and this natural wood such a sea-salt color? and I was the one
to pack the matryoshka of cynlinders for her, tip-off the tiniest cup with the shaken

confetti greens. The mummy is out of the cursed Sarcophagus now, and she’s
stiff as Anubis, too. Her eyes aren’t blinking when her knees turn. A warped piece

of plywood thrown from a hotel room, I win the babushka as my prize, I do it, we
do it, we successfully make a human being turn into an object for five minutes,
did you see the magic in her crunching and the corals and the crash? The performance

of her pupils gazing toward the galaxy, while her film-screen is swirling and
her body is blending with the menthol, when her fingers aren’t looking at six masks

around her, she is just another baby inverted from a wooden ghost that grew up in
The Great Sage Mountain. She is an optics mirror, dead girl and eyes of us all.


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