It was 99° and night. The End was the worst. The Atoms had begun applauding lightly. They had the faces of a dead-eyed corpse, so damned certain about the outcome of whatever they were marching towards, or against, that they hadn’t even raised their weapons. Dallas ate whatever peeled off the wall. Diamond Philips had an Easter egg pinned to her boob crease on the set everyone watched, seething and rubbing their green off. Jesusbum wasn’t wearing socks and had recently become concerned about my having passed out. Summer looked preoccupied. Her ribcage discharged jam through the slits like white wood. Moss gobbled up the cable wire. A biker fell on his nut sack. A skater fell on his nut sack. Commercial. Commercial. My eyes were wet, and I had to drag out the old handkerchief, looking out over the silvery light on the rooftop, and over the river, its spring sludge rising towards heaven, its long ridge spine, its rolled dark.
Adam Moorad is a salesman & mountaineer. He is the author of four chapbooks and a novella. He lives in Brooklyn. Visit him here: adamadamadamadamadam.blogspot.com.