Krackit saw the thing I cut into the bathroom wallpaper with my X-acto knife and thought I should transcribe it and bring it to the Godless Poetry Slam Cookout next week. It’s pretty clear that he just wants to get me out of the house for a few hours and doesn’t care a whit for the delicate mobiles of words that I construct with shaking hands, e.g., “Stabbing with the awl from the Swiss Army Knife I found in my niece’s jumper / the prong in between sinister middle and ring fingers / not even able to look / a thick roll of butcher paper running behind my closed eyes / disappointments written in Sharpie / each with an icon next to it that details the tenor and genre / allowing for quick cross-referencing.” He just wants the fur-lined emo-gloves all for himself.