WhT the Fu k is this room, this. O,c, this stiff sheet across my legs, the circulation. air radiating. In a flower petal bloom. Fling cold air, stir the hot guts of the pot bellied stove. My teeth click and chatter, grind and attack one another in a suicidal fuckthedentist fury. A righteous and mighty thing.
my dentist left me and I said no, give me one last poke. He stopped with a withering look. Gimme one last poke, I said, with your tiny little poker thing. Make em shine. Make those gums bleed. Except I fucking flossed for you this time, jackass. Shaking his head, he walked away.
Fucking dentists, I cry, and a streetlight pops above me. I'm talking like a pop that sounds like a fucking toy gun discharging in your ear. I look up, and the glass gets me. More delicate than you'd expect, this curve of glass no thicker than copy paper, but off-white, maybe yellowed, and the damn thing drifted with its magnificent curve up and underneath the lower lid of my left eye, kissing each eyelash as it went, until its very long and sharp edge came to rest somewhere between my Infratrochlear nerve and the mucus-slick surface of my eyeball.
