Status: Waiting: I tried listening but wasn't allowed.

To: VW

From: DS

Subject: A powder called regolith

I feed them flies. Upside down biding as I write the wind-torn petals of a rose. What could be extended, consumed or exhumed, as desired. Up for air and a lungful of hot shards, the worst day. Like rooting for the Nazi in a horror film.

Silk spun from an abdomen, crosshairs for craving, catching prey, two feelers and eight simple eyes—what spin.

There are 800 in my house and most of them prefer lurking. To feed off one's own and regenerate legs. Six hours at a time catching flies, I hanker. The role
of entomology to divide and

cut, a benevolent display of torture, really. A ladder you stepped off the morning following. To catch a girl falling, resurfaced warmer, wider this time in a desert or
an incubator, a powder called regolith. Perhaps

heat and space are interchangeable.


* * *


Status: Missing: Tell me the truth: Where is Valerie?

To: SV

From: VW

Subject: Re: A reason for abandonment

About that rejection I've already submitted, so. This is the story of my life: Disciplinarians are coming; others are packed away somewhere, awaiting execution.

About the flask or the noise from upstairs, Bellflower opened as a well Grandmother dropped down. I can close if you want. Filter so nothing enters when you forget the sound carries, modern day methods of electrocution. My speckled

hen with the crest is dead of a single-minded neurosis, thread spun down the inner side of a thigh a way of messaging. Who needs a telephone or a therapist when we all have cells.

I talked to Frost's grandson yesterday. I don't know if God or television made him so smart, but a decapitated turkey is our thanksgiving, birds carry a beluga, and goldfish have good memories. You can learn so much in a five-minute conversation.