Shame on you. All night in the computer room the geeks start and stop services on the server Gunfighter. Fluorescent sky, mole tile floor and the improbability of resolution before dawn packs a cry sandwich. Off on a desert isle Willy Gilligan in standard accouterments schleps the professor's coke bottle raft to the lagoon. His shoes are untied.
Coconuts litter the sand.
Be careful little buddy. Tonight is a snowy Christmas. I sit by the picture window clipping my toe nails. I hold the crescents to the glass and hum Esquivel. Upstairs my mother's heart is a plastic grocery bag sloshing with blood.