H.M.S. arrives on a too-moderate late squall, asking after Harvest Moon. Not far from hump mountain, so many gone absent. Survivors shrug and keep search for pretty white egg. Rifle through wood cabinet. Sprinkle silt from incinerator. Snack traitors set up feed around scatter city plateau. Many alpaca relying on nothing big predator, dry climate, the kind of social fresh curiosity. We left delicate systems of red sticks, plastics, ramshackle teddybears to manufactured open-minded flags still tending gray senior building. Still dreaming cosy dwelling. H.M.S. lure hiders through mythical dessert and long departure spaghetti promises. Says everywhere I go I bring the flood.

Maybe winter passed. Maybe someone near raise many faces to visit, introduce breeding to northern part of week. This is not that next big thing which follow from past.

I prefer the poster extirpated from that fucking wall
—one torn to shreds, possibly by a wild little kid or,
I imagine, by a deranged schizophrenic— Each torn piece
less capable of expressing context. A torn poster such as this is a vomit of impunity;
although, it seems a map of a world unwanted made visible by NASA
to neoliberalize this repugnant vacancy. It seems to the rivers,
and to the deepest seas from a satellite view of the earth
that neither you nor I are the masters of our dreams, we owe them
to neoliberalism for we happened to have been born here, we came
to blame everything known, or if you want, better open your eyes
and slather the lids with glue, so they stay open while we wait for the train to deliver us for slaughter. I prefer to see that ripped poster, deconstructed layers
on the wall of the train station than jump across the third rail
to pick up my cell phone and die in a dishonorable way.

She doesn’t bleed. Years ago, he made himself at home in her mind. To adjust, she shifted, only several degrees, but look how far her vector has gone astray. He claimed he could smell it when girls were on their periods, he knows when her period is coming. She, too, is desperate to be a hunter. Instead she received only an invitation to join the Mad Girls Club. She tore up the card, stood in front of the mirror, sliced her image to ribbons. So many acute angles, sharp like stars. One eye remained, a Chinese eye.

She would always be watched by that eye, rolling like a loose marble inside her, down her tongue, perched at the tip. The wet pink muscle, lying in wait. Like stars, like islands, like dreams of a parallel world. China doll world was hardly a vacation. Report all Chinese activity in the daily newspaper. Surveillance at all times. Yet my tongue reports nothing. Somewhere, there may have been movement, but that story is in cold storage. Freeze your eggs, and also those years. Encase all bodies still left in your mind in ice too. Blood slows. Pain cannot register. The most humane way to kill cold-blooded creatures, the newspaper reports.

If he gives chase, it’s hard not to run, I know. Once, they froze her feet in blocks of ice. Mad girl, standstill. Signs of blood, signs of ice, signs of girl, those will all fall away. If you don’t move.