Improv Graffiti On The Twenty-Five Thirty-Nine.

"Fog is fog, you smell terrific!"

. . .

SALIV, Page 164.

It can make you very much afraid, and for good reason. After all, your existence is at stake.

SALIV, Page 148.

"Whatever God believes in is real," David said.

I hoped the plasmate considered us its friends. I hoped it didn't think we were snitches.

. . .

Outside The Window Of Their Bedroom, She Spit The Vibration Out Of Her Mouth And Cut Three Semi-Circle Slices Into The Glass, And Put The Scrapped Car-Stereo Speakers Into High-Powered Position.

I check the feed and it's strong, no red lines this time. So I hook up the wires and step away.

Her smile looks like an advertisement.

I'm not convinced.

The sides of our hands touch and the color of her skin blues.

We went with sub-audible bass this time -- snaps of starving-class wombs, rose-petal rainwater drops, military helicopter noise, college student blood-checks for mono, and Africans yelling at animals.

She told me, on the sidewalk at six, that if I saw her apartment with the lights on and the blinds down, I should call someone about the body.