& I spit. & I get spit on.
His disfigured face conflicted my frontal lobe— I won’t remember you like this.
And then I look around— the thick, nostalgic, Brooklyn accents like Elmers glue adjoining each tone into a snowflake, coming out of coarse black hair variations,
though some try to hide it in dye but you can’t hide, though sometimes I try, to hide my fortress—
my jute grain fort, coming out is a linear flow of gathered lake water, which is directed towards a round connected moat, with an aloof but recognizable sandcastle in the center
My lips kiss the top of it, and sand crusts my lips, and squeezes into my salivating mouth
I feel particles grind up against my teeth when I speak—
And I spit.
I spit on the ground my toes, my knee caps, my chin, her bag, his racket. I spit on fate, divinity, science, logic, karma, hope, prayer, mortality— I spit. I spit.