THE SOFT DESTRUCTION OF A SINGLE ENTITY OVER A PERIOD OF TIME ONE MIGHT CALL, AGING by Michael James Martin
9/21/09
 
I killed the gnat-bug and felt sorry for an instant. If you know what an instant is it feels like forever dropping into a hole, or the wings of a butterfly peeled off then reattached with dried elmers glue and super-globular plus (superglue). Patty walks in nude except for her flesh and offers me the dry skin she peeled off her lips. Dinner's on the stove.

She called me horrible. I knew I was. I knew she was, also, but her saying it and me not, it didn't seem like she was all that horrible. I had a hammer in my hand.

Somewhere along the road we ditched our bodies, dactyl'd one another's corneas. I drove a couple miles around the mountain, headlights on, squinting because, like I said, dactyl'd. I almost killed myself on a bend, headlights looking at an abominable snowman hunched over, doing what looked like masturbating and having sex with a bobcat. I rubbed my eyes and saw Patty giving me the middle finger and flashing one breast.

The dawn broke. I don't know how dawn breaks exactly. In a dream I had ten years ago I ran outside into the street to watch the moon take up half the sky. I would always tell others on internet message boards or at family reunions (the two aren't exclusive) about this big lickable moon. It wasn't until the ten year point where I think about it ten years later that I call it a dream because in the intermittence I called it reality.

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Michael James Martin lives in the Texan desert. Some of his writing can be found in Slush Pile, and forthcoming from The New York Quarterly and The Benefactor Magazine.
 
 
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