I THINK THEY KILLED MATTHEW FIELDS
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It was when the neighborhood cats followed me home that I knew Suspicious oven drippings Even the abandoned patio furniture is dark and gummy I think the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling is code Besides too many hairs sugar the bathtub I think they killed Matthew Fields and he’s still here In my home there are no shallow mounds but there is coal dust and deck planks to die under Once the intercom shuffled where is Matthew Fields His brother didn’t know he moved but he never rings again and neither does the post office the post office is confused so I keep his mail in a shoebox I write letters to the landlord to the local sheriff to the cable company The landlord: they run with dogs notorious for consuming only as many calories as they expect to burn They leave clean bowls behind and cabinets painted shut The sheriff calls personally to say centipedes move 20 inches per second and are known to tamper with evidence The cable company sends a stock letter addressed to Matthew Fields so now I sit too close to the TV
I AM TRYING TO WRITE DISCREETLY ON THIS TRAY TABLE
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The man in front of me is working with a broken seat because it reclines much farther than the rest It hit my face as I was fishing a Xanax from the seat pocket in front of me Why I don’t know My bag is vertical in the overhead compartment I didn’t loiter by the gate before my number was called I hardly scowl at first class (aside from the shrimp cocktail incident in January) I follow all the rules The in-flight movie is in the aisle and I can just catch its dog ear Something or other starring a benign George Clooney in a fucking Hawaiian shirt of all things Who chooses these Who designs planes The schematics Who builds them I am trying to write discreetly here I am trying to Indian style but the fabric doesn’t friction well with my flip-flops Apparently I have a working seat because I am uncomfortable I’ve already got the window so I can’t bare feet that’s rude I’m also not leaving the guy next to me much room for elbows or chatting I just don’t want to small talk about my cross-country house hunting and I’ve never been a decent liar I felt him read the Newsweek over my shoulder and wondered was it the banks in Spain or the electric typeface of the advert on the opposite page I just don’t want him to take the liberty I know better since last month and the man who sucked in his teeth at my long distance relationship and stirred me for the snack cart like I must have the overpriced olives The water vapor from my electronic cigarette might cause a riot but I won’t make it to the bathroom because earlier when taking my seat both men in my aisle joked I better not have to pee but they weren’t kidding really This is the first flight in awhile I haven’t been drunk It might be the half watered ice It might be the last time my lover picked me up from LAX and said I reek like vodka I actually hate when people say my lover that way I didn’t know vodka reeked like anything They don’t come around nearly as much to collect garbage and I don’t know what to do with my cream cracker bits and empty plastic cup I’m not pressing that button though I’m counting the germs on the complimentary headset They’re collecting on my neck pillow as we speak I don’t like borrowed or borrowing so the window shade will stay shut the whole time There’s too much natural light this high up This in-between isn’t pleasant for anybody There aren’t enough sidewalks in LA The last house we saw was white Christmas lights and shade trees but it’s a 20 minute drive on a canyon road to get anywhere realistic That kind of novelty never lasts