by Daniel D'Angelo

I was in my house. I could move,
I could arrange myself around things,
but I couldnít move anything else.

Iím capably strong and I couldnít
pick up a glass, roll a ball, open a door.
A window was open. I folded myself through.

The outside was also still. To walk on grass
was to stand on the tips of it. The knifey tips,
sharp and unbendable, didnít fuck up my shoes.

That was a nice feature of the way things were.
Nothing happened outside so I folded
myself back inside the house through the window.

I have like ten kids at home frozen at various stations:
dishwashing, televisioning, sleeping.
I didnít try to say anything to them. My wife, Karen

Hornet, wasnít moving either. She was stuck looking pissed
in front of the closed basement door with a note
she was taping to it that read: Honey, I feel like shit.

Can we get a blender and buy tons of stuff and try to make
a milkshake configuration that tastes like a stunning
new kind of mortal terror that actually, finally, after

all our terror experiments, makes us feel better?
We can start out blending mustard with bread
and cheese and bonemeal and crayons and what

happens if we put marmalade in it? Are there types
of marmalade? Do you kind of want to put types of beef in it?
Get several beefs. Love, Karen Hornet.