Many calls for takeout astonished society. The baby wept itself a cloud. Worked to death on each nipple, gaining one hundred pounds, boiling its maker in simple matter. The cruelest rule the ancients knew: cancel movie night. Woe is H.. He stopped conference-calling oversized steaks. The town quit colors, ideally. H. is barking into a shoebox to the shame of the manufacturer. He was to be done right. No obstacles in his machining. An ambling fellow smelling & sleeping. Diligence, discharge, & energy. She’s only communal with her cinderblock horsey. Such a grand blotch. Buildings slid out like the laughter of children. Think about her graduating to nut. This drag is without blemish, confidence, or free stamps. He’s standing there like a fucking boulder, if they could sweat tamales, rocking himself medium so he doesn’t kick over the crib. So there were children there. In there were living children & his family there. An America there & sure, someplace & such. He feeling himself pulled conflicted there. H. besotted with ethics. Ethics besotting H. Not that it’s not his. The way out is wrath. Corrupt the body by congratulating it. Eat Christ’s bread, even if he sat on the stove & jerked off first. To H. he’s still a top five blaster of ink. All that circular text. He welcomed again the words of Christ & God into his guts & smelled the disgust of surrounding somesuch. H. would stare at a prison in America. H. loved to stare at prisons in America & feel himself starving & nagged at by lice. H. loved to feel imprisoned in something. H. loved to wonder about the touch of light & sun within the prisonwalls. H. could feel himself deathly, a dying person, a person nearing something like death. In all his being H. could not account for dying, or welcome dying. H. only understood to be & being, & dying only made sense in active living. His being was stretched in front of him like bloated doecorpse & not much feeling in his guts. The shed seemed small at first. The shed was bought & pulled & dragged by him & eventually he made his way to where he was & turned his anger inward. In the shed H. could turn his anger inward & feel something strong & compelling & the light would make him warm & sleepy. He committed crimes against himself. He ruined himself & hurt himself. A being there, hurting & being, his body writhing on the floor & no light. No family & legacy & wife & children & somehow it has left his being & he is tired. They are gone & where they are is being. They are being. They are feeling the sun some days or not. They are doing somesuch. They are wonderful bodies being & H. could not surround himself. H. could not surround himself & selfishly he wandered to the place where the shed existed & dug his hands into the dirt to feel this way & pulled at the men & all was right with the world. Someday perhaps somesuch met some other being sleeping & marrying together in living & smiling sure.

One morning in H.’s morning the sun hit him & lit his face & let the wet of morning split the sweat & slid it down his face & felt him breathing & H. could stare down at his chest & see it moving & see himself moving & understand that this was breathing this was all of his living reduced to his breathing & sleeping & feeling this way in the sunlight felt alive & being & H. stared at himself. Endless & endless he stood up & felt at his ribs & felt himself falling apart a bit & being a bit & needing to eat he left for grubs & pulled a bit here & there until he’d made a small mound of somesuch & ate them with leaves & drank from the springwater there & stared up & felt the sun against his chest & thanked the sun & thanked his God for this moment he was feeling there & being free there & having this moment to himself & his life strewn out before him in various messes & H. ran his hand along the scars on his chest & the nub of his arm & could feel himself shadowing there & being there still even after the limb had been buried & the self had been put away & himself had been made to rest & laid & buried & burned there in the ground & he remembered the smell of the meat & felt himself smelling it still as he ran his remainder hand against the scars of chest & the deformity of his chin as it jutted & gnarled from him & felt the light lit against him & the sun on his chest & screamed to his God in thanks for all of this light & all of this wounding & for the machine & for the surrounding silence & the dwindling world out there & the incomprehensibility of it all. His wife taken & his family taken & his home taken & his being taken & his living taken & everyone’s money burned to cinders & ruined & every life ruined & entered into their lists & made to account & made to atone & this endless screaming & this endless sorrowing & this hollowness & in all of it H. finding the creator & the machine & feeling himself compelled this way to pull this way & to be free this way & not knowing whether his family lived or died or what & what to make of any of it & all he wanted was a kind of sleep a kind of languagelessness & a kind of peace or light. The sun against his chest he sat in the mud & felt it encircle his groin & laid back & let the water edge up against him slightly & cold & the sun warming him & the light bearing down & pressed against his cock & the sorrowing cities where the men had been & Bellona & all of it useless & all of it being torn apart in some wondrous spectacle & H. watching & tearing at himself & feeling his arm split or the leg or the mounds of bodies he’d seen coated in chemicals outside cities or the anguish & the anguishing & the constant asking after numbers & clarification & ensuring & making sure & needing to be sure & paranoia & staring & lifelessness & the corpses of some all some plaguerot some besotted body some populace some television streaming out & screaming guts on top of him H. is finding it there & feeling it wound him & press to his ribs & press to his guts & the grubs are being digested & the cities are being digested & the wounds & the scars & the removed limbs & the bonejuts & the scabbing & the soreness & the implacability of his flesh is being digested.

The words of the nightmarish type dream when he begins to spin so fast which is just the sun will soon come less on time, sun rise or age numb returned ears numb returned the body from the misery they are unhappy. The food was present. When alone with extraordinary rich in precious metals, but they fear the body is the body sad but a kind of a great to invest in his cold blood. The name of. The size of the, if the disorder in them she brought them to himself in what follows, & the analysis. For this reason, if the case may be, make a lot of creatures of this machine of his own, & he came to the viewers, but eventually to think about I the certificate which the covering of return in the home today, because I was convinced at last. I had read & H. had made himself known to me & to the world & given himself to the world this way & put his body into the work & put his mind into the work & let the work feel him & strain him & contour against his guts as he was afraid & welcomed the sleepiness it brought & this machine & this silence it brought & the outside world was coming to dust & they were plagued & they were covered in white dust & they were buried in pits & H. wanting nothing to do with it & wanting to feel this way forever & wanting to feel free forever he was burying himself slowly & trying attempting to make himself a functional member of the atmosphere of the earth each limb a part of the earth each extremity a part of the earth the entirety of the body spread this way & thus against the slaughter against the bodies buried there. At first H. had wandered outside the cities & into the desert & had clung to homes with televisions & watched closely & touched with gentlemen who weren’t psychopathic & he enjoyed himself that way & drank coffee in the morning hot hot sun & feeling it against his skin with extra sugar in the coffee dense with sugar & a large glass of water & whatever he could eat from wherever he would eat whatever he could wherever & it was enriching & felt enriching & he was welcoming these things & all his living & his life & entering this space this mental space where life could thrive & feeling the sun burn his skin on days & remembering his family & they’re coated in dust & he’s having to make identifications & H. needing bleach.


Grant Maierhofer is the author of CLOG and GAG, Flamingos and others. Twitter: evilevilevil77

Image: Lara Alonso Corona

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