PALO, ALTO EEG
BY ADAM MOORAD
Always after dinner you look twenty shades darker than your natural color. Upturned knife and fork in
every hand.
Semper Fidelis, you say. Always Faithful. The Few. The Proud, screaming, “hoorah -
OOH-RAH.” Glitter-eyed with glass of horchata.
My ex-husband drank the same thing the same way on the rocks with his shotgun blown between his bowlegs. Resting.
Your profile is robust enough for any length of spinal tap. Today our lumbars puncture. Together we
drink one another’s cerebrospinal fluid. Test for suspected meningitis. Tastes like maple syrup when
you close your eyes.
If you cannot understand send a text message.
If you’re out of the tunnel or into reception.
On successive evenings. Time lasts as long as the reruns run. Jackie Chan runs through the television.
Through New York City. Through Vancouver Canada. He was filmed kickboxing. Trying not to hurt
himself the way you do. You eat too much again. You will miss my one scene in the film. Matching
hairs. Matching split ends. As seen on 60 Minutes. Navy troops shower together in Arabian
bunkhouses. Inside the American consulate. Defaced by Farsi,
I want to carry your baby. I’m going to everywhere. To a place called there.
With valid U.S. passports plane tickets to California are only $230 and under after the holidays. We can
see ballgames, beaches, and the HOLLYWOOD sign. Witness it authentically. Then later
retrospectively. I’ve always wanted to spray-paint something.
Everything created contains an invisible instruction.
I am wondering if some tsunamis can freeze in ice mountains. Then stay like that for birds to land.
There is water falling from the ceiling and the wall. The color makes me think. If Jack's in love, he's no
judge of Jill's booty. Ben Franklin charges his Maxim subscription on my debit card. AMEX. My
catheter is loose. I tool.
Chewing gum for only one hour is always such a waste of rainforest.
When you get home, I intend to turn my seashell collection into sand with a spoon. You will help me put
the sand in a box. We can bury children in the playground safely. Like Vanna White. On Mount
Vesuvius. At Pompeii. Home to the Greek god Zeus. And queen Alcmene of Thebes. And Heracles.
Alternatively known as Huesou huios. Or God double-fisting Roman candles.
My bones. What about my bones? I haven’t thought about my bones in forever.
I had my period this morning under the threat of death. It felt like photosynthesis.
This bed hurts my back. I want a different bed. A different back. I want my own bed back. My bed is made of wood. Chernobyl is the Russian word for wormwood.
You’re not listening you never listen I’m screaming you cannot hear I cannot.
Start me a fire with the Duraflames I purchased with the newspaper coupons because the power’s out.
No heat. Sorry. My blood is cold. You’re the cold-blooded one. So critical and hot. Beat me till my
eyes turn purple. I want to see the stars.
There must be a lot of traffic. Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?
I’m only joking.
My scabs are medium-sized. Shaped like Caribbean islands. My aortas. Reminiscent of some Canadian
Rockies. My eyelashes. Passing as lava. I can’t see with them. I never saw with them again. I lived
one year in 120 seconds.
Yours truly. Your chromosomes look like chipped piano keys. I much more prefer the xylophone.
Every bar and irregular meter. Hymns of flat affection. Dressed. Undressed me of my four-colored
faith. Tomorrow I’m told it’s supposed to snow.
Is this the television? Turn the television on. Move the television. I cannot see.
The first times I saw you were the last times. I pretend I could pretend. There was something strong at
first sight. You erect so suddenly. Oh my. Under florescent light disco ball. We heaved. My arms and
legs aligned instantaneously. Clicked together. Lego toys. My breath was gone. Is. Under hot red
lamps.
This was all before the batteries died.
