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Friday, December 4, 2009

Brother by Kelly Wantuch

I drank it, even though it was blue like a voodoo elixir of life that would somehow change the fact he was found dead today, but it was just Kool-aid. Autopsies speak in tongues. Too many lesion seizures, merits measured by silver-spooned scabs upon scabs. Racquetballs ricocheted through his brain, maybe it was mine, I don’t remember. Family traditions of playing bowling with our heads, Simon with hot colored light bulbs and finding buckshot before Hoppy and Bugsy are gutted and served, all to honor thy mother. I still don’t like games much. Thirty-six year-old centipedes eventually can’t walk when their legs are plucked one by one from birth.Can anyone stop the spew of a stomach virus? A two lined death notice in an unknown city to announce her accomplishment of putting him in her gum wrapper to toss away; I will never let her chew me anymore.

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