Night opened on her stalk and fed me a nectar of endless recursion: I am watching myself watching myself watching myself live a life, duly insured and mortgaged and stumbling over toy wagons blocking the walk. I am taking her literal nipple into my mouth and reaching for a waist as smooth as smoked glass, until the sound of chewing wakes me and I lie in the dark trying to remember what’s real. In the morning, will I really find a fist-sized hole behind the kitchen sink crawling with carpenter ants? Will the porcupine chatter at me from behind a non-functioning church organ in my dining room? And what about the mice pulling their tails through their teeth? Outside the window, a dry retching as the feral housecat regurgitates her own black fur. It could be anything.
Dave Bonta (bio) often suffers from imposter syndrome, but not in a bad way — more like some kind of flower-breathing dragon, pot-bellied and igneous. Be that as it may, all of his writing here is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).