Ejectioning

Joseph Gordon

The first time I saw the flea willowing. That was in August. That flea, like some drunken sun, so timid, taxed—spent seconds each morning. Fleaodore, I knew him as, though he never bothered with anything else. That was the first time. In August. He scurried out of the cracks in some errant wall. No, that was a lie. He unlabradored. That’s more accurate. The whited wall was just where I slept. Spine fingering plaster every night. Head drooping like a horizon. That was just. He bounced from each of my toes, ungathering the air around him, not quite a frolic, but some kind of rivering. And as he unbuckled the air around him, toe to toe to toe, he seemed to——[1]

 

In August. Toe, to toe, to toe. I keep staring at them; they are feeted teeth, chewing at the dirtness that rolls off of their bottom, on this Earth, this planet. Plaster spineing grass. I keep thinking of her

collar bones. We washed down

whiskey

with whiskey

we finished cleaning. It was time

to go.

The relationship between the Sun and the Earth is that of unrequited lusting. Sun tendrils after a Greening Blue that bobs away and around, suckling.

 

Moon is party to this.

 

 

2.

“Joseph, did you remember the bones today?” asked her.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” I Josephed back to her.

“The bills. Did you remember to pay them today?” she unjosephed back.

“Oh.”

This was something I did not forget, but feigning felt more than the lie did. “__________”, I said, “Compstock has been chewing a lot of his fur lately.” I Josephed again.

This time, she Josephed, brackishly. “He must have fleas. I will get him medicine tomorrow.”

That was in August. I don’t remember which, not last August. Will there be no more?

I was born

in an August-like.

When she died, I was jerking off. When I found out she died, I was about to jerk off. I came home from the funeral, and I jerked off again. None of this is related to the method of her death. As far as I know. She used to give me hand jobs while kissing my neck and tugging gently at my beard. She hit the water[2] at a speed of 112.65 km per hour. This was unrequited lust. The hand jobs were given at a speed of 85 km per hour. This was an unrequited lust.

Fleaodore must have been watching from one of the toes.

Will there be no more?

 

 

3.

and with star soaked
fingers

i cull
the legs

Flea-o-dore Flea,

who is always

so timid,
so taxed.

his language
constellates

across his lips.

jo sef will you geeve mee
a prop or barry-al?l

my words knuckle.

i’m sorry Flea-o-dore,
i’m all out of bones today.
perhaps tomorrow.

the invisible

gears in the breeze

unbuckle from their cages,

grinding him

into distance.[3]

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was a baby, the first time I saw August. I do not remember; the move was rather troubling, or so I am told. My lungs jellied.

Tubes were sent tonguing in and out of my chest, pumping me.

I am now missing my left pectoral muscle. It is flat, and misshapen. The test pancake. The scars left from the tubes look like the splattering of skin.
The first time I was a baby, I saw, a rather troubling move. I do remember the second. It is unclear what is to be gained from this

section or of my

life, but I can assure you

that the willowing

of her death.

“Joseph, I’m just going to take a walk,” said her.

“Joseph, I’m.” said her.

“Jos.” said her.

“Joseph, I.” said.

“Joseph, I’m just going.” said her.

“Joseph, walk.” said her.

“I’m going to take.” her.

“Jsph M jst gng t tk wlk.” sd hr.

“Oe, I u oi o a a a.” ai e.

She[4] saddled up

along the shoreline. The Bay had suckled

on her skin,

tiding,

waves gumming against.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I keep thinking of her collared bones.

 

 

Toe, to toe, to toe. The gummied teethiness of them. I stuffed them into socks and went outside to smoke sun. Light

lathered around my lungs, and I wandered. I slept on a curb for 3 days. Ate Mcdonald’s. It utterly ruined the image I had crafted; intruded. Large fries, Dr. Pepper, 2 Cheeseburgers, just cheese & onions.

I slept on the curb, the brick was just

hiatus for the grass. A pigeon tadpoled around my feet. I tossed him some of the food. Pigeon ate. This lust

was requited. I keep coming

back to bugs, to birds, to her, to bones. None of this

means anything. It’s just

willowing. I slept on.

I slept.

 

---

[1] Unbeknownst to August
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[2] As though she never bothered with anything else.
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[3] Joseph allowed his beard. The space between his hands fished through the hairs on his face, he ran through himself. That morning, he quit his job, a student or factory worker, or some such business. There was something about the whiskey down his throat, he thought, it filled him with the fuck of a humid summer. Florida wasn’t an option anymore. Fleaodore blueberried himself on the blood until it was no longer an option. His babies grew. Joseph never bothered with anything else.
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[4] Moon was party to this.
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© Joseph Gordon

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Joseph Patrick Gordon was born in Dunedin, Florida on August 14^th, 1984. He graduated from the University of South Florida with a Bachelor’s in Creative Writing and is currently pursuing an MFA at the University of San Francisco. He was three months premature at birth and spent six weeks in an incubator, where he has been told that several tubes ran through his chest in order to keep him from dying. He currently resides in Richmond, California, and he feels like a papercut on most days.