The horoscope writer kills herself on a Tuesday. It is, by coincidence, the day the weekly paper comes out. Townspeople read her column and find it mundane but also uncanny. Here, some of them feel, are words from beyond the veil.
Artist friend of mine works part-time at a store that sells
Red Rooster pills to any guy who thinks he needs
a “male sexual performance booster” or any gal who
wants a 60-tab bottle of that reliable blend of proven
You see the flower's form leak into itself. A self.
Some things in America still make sense.
I open my junk mail, Disney red. Your family.
Liquid uttered out into the night freezes
your dreams undone. Veracity leaves its whispers.
Make an orchestra instead. Every bitten breath