Handling Knives While Naked
by Brian S. Corbett

I HATE handling knives when I’m naked. The glare from the overhead fluorescent lights; my bobbing, wrinkled thing.—Damn, it makes me shiver.

I hate being outside during a severe wind storm, especially when I remove the blindfold and realize everyone’s left me alone.
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The sun beats down on the cracked pavement of the Pizza Hut parking lot, and a haze of dirty humidity hangs in the air. Some of the light comes in through the drive thru window and falls directly on me. Waves of distortion roil in the shadows from the heat coming off the pizza oven.

It was there and then it was gone. Gone so far that even when Max tried to recall what it had been like before he could have no idea if what he was recalling was that or just the shadow play of similar shapes. He had finally been asleep, and then not. So not. The mysteries of withheld sleep seem sometimes unfathomable and other times as blunt as a brick wall. Earlier, Max had taken the route of running into the brick wall until he thereby achieved several hours of sleep.

a poor substitute for the real one.
They forgot to tell the family
not to come this year
on account of the broken
electricity.

That lady with the hair
sits confused in the corner
wondering where
the buzzards
gathered
this time.