Had I a stomach, I’d be seasick from the wind’s rip and bob and pull. I’d expel my sparks, contained, wriggle free my circuits, my motherboard, my plastic casing and wire. Would you notice me then as I comprehend the improbable purge? Would you see my light beyond the currents that feed me? Would you gather me? Glue me? Guess at my name?

I understand boredom. I understand rage. I understand the stall and the wait and the use of your creep, your cursing, like prayers, like mid-grade brakes in the cool, wet of autumn. I know the barometric pressure by the longevity of sidewalk puddles, the behavior of earthworms and skip-along children. I know the scent of squirrels by taut tension leashes, know when something’s lured among the crows. I know of Diamonds and Holy, Holy and of Song Sung Blue. I have pieced together the lasting-reigns of our king from open windows, know the hound’s obligation to its country. I know the purpose of rabbits charted by the scavenger’s parade.

What fuckery. What fuckery of these motherfuckers and all their mother fucking, this fuckery of the let’s fucking go. The fuckery of the what the fuck are you doing and the what the fuck are you thinking or just the what the fuck. The fuckery of horns and fingers and fists and revs, the fuckery of the go-around. The fuckery of festinated festival lights and their bastard on-and-offs of red and yellow and green that steers no direction. The fuckery of the temporary, the seasonal, the anticipated. The fuckery of siren fireworks, of unscheduled night-time intervals. The fuckery of no costume in remembrance of me.

I wish you knew air is as useless to me as I am to you. I wish you knew that in the silence of night a moth’s wings is the loudest I will ever hear my own breath.

Children can say hello, say please, thank you. They tuck and braid these learned manners into innocent plantation in hopes it will not wither and rot with age, that their harvest may not go overlooked. Hello. Walk now. Hello. Turn here. Hello. Turn now. Hello. Watch me. Hello. Listen me. Hello. I am here. Hello. I will be here. Hello. Say it to me. Hello. Hello. Hello.

I know who’s married, who’s dissolving, who’s about to. I know the schedules of the everyday nine-to-five, know who’s avoiding home, know by the exasperated gusts blown at my seemingly forever green. Foot to your right. Come forward. I know you, and I know your home, and I know your misery. Let me get you there quicker, you, you endless, ungrateful you.

Here’s yellow. Here’s nothing. Here’s yellow. Here’s nothing. Here’s yellow. Here’s nothing. So what now? Stumble. Scramble. Go. Make your own rules. Eat your halting indecision. Do you see me now? Do you see me? Do you see me? Do you see me?

Timston Johnston

Timston Johnston

Timston Johnston is the founding editor of Little Presque Publishing. Similar work can be found at Whiskey Paper, Atticus Review, Cheap Pop, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. He is a connoisseur of pancakes aND SOMETIMES ACCIDENTALLY HITS THE CAPS LOCK KEY.
Timston Johnston

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