the destroyer > text > Meg Johnson
I can hear the alphabet, the letters
clanking on the sidewalk, falling
out of my head/brain/head. My
noggin is surfing on bodies, body
surfing, body heat/hot. I want
to tell you about the crime, how
the factories make the whole city
smell like burning plastic or an
animal hospital. Something
apocalyptic. But I can’t remember.
My body is a harmonica, any
improvisation will work, any
scenario involving a man sitting
on a porch will do. At least as a start.