Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 21, September 2012)

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Later I am writing and watching myself walking through the desert, searching for a particular hole when a brutal dog attacks me. It attempts to bite off my arm, but the dog’s owner is confused by my skin (it changes colors) so he pulls the dog away, spanks it, and proposes certain theories about the need to alter the dog’s intrinsic nature.

What leaks out of the dog is a human combination of love, anger and devotion.

What leaks out of the human is a hybrid combination of intellect, desire, and monstrosity.

I remove my arm before the dog can yank it completely from my body, and when I attempt to patch up the leaking blood I suddenly feel the urge to write.

I dip my finger in the blood and start to compose letters on my skin.

But then there is nothing to say.

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