There is no Flash Gordon, only this space
ship swiveling back and forth in an arena
of stars that are not stars but pixels flickering,
an illusion of movement.
my horns branch and splinter and
i don’t have it in me
to call them antlers.
He couldn’t say what had started it. The still openness between the walls and the floor and his body? The howls from the Antarctic wind outside? The knowledge that his heart was the only human one beating more than a hundred kilometers out?
Tecmo / Barry was pretty good, but he couldn’t dance like the real / Barry, just like how I could run fly patterns for my dad / in our front yard but in a pick-up game even the easiest / passes bounced off my hands.
you can barely see
through the dark
the boxes of baseball cards
a pink panther action figure