wires like copper
On the 14th floorboard is a list of things I should know like
how radiators sound of chemistry labs, creaking doors, tiny miners, and the long
high-pitched eeeeeeeeeeee of a forgotten phone call. One.
Or how Portland is not a city at all but a vacuum. For trendy souls. A vacuum with
a labyrinth inside from which nobody escapes, how Portland is designed specifically to let people in and never let them back out. How it must be filled with rats.
Also, there is a faint diagram for discreet nose-picking so as to encourage honesty. Three.
Four through Seven are tips on traveling. Like
never. ever. ever forget your toothbrush on a thirty-six hour train ride.
and always talk to Joe. He is lonely and full of America.
six. eat the alligator meat. it tastes just like chicken.
seven. don’t be afraid of cockroaches, they scatter at light the way flop-house tenants do at the word Eviction.
Also there is the anatomy of a lightbulb. Also a reminder of how the Northwest rain smells like summer asphalt lifted off the earth in invisible waves—how the waves look like telephone wires near the train tracks in texas—how the telephone wires hummm like copper—how copper tastes like blood—how blood has that tinny smell of rain. I don’t know what state to call home, so also, there is a list of cities I have been to. Short descriptions of how those cities smell in the rain.
how radiators sound of chemistry labs, creaking doors, tiny miners, and the long
high-pitched eeeeeeeeeeee of a forgotten phone call. One.
Or how Portland is not a city at all but a vacuum. For trendy souls. A vacuum with
a labyrinth inside from which nobody escapes, how Portland is designed specifically to let people in and never let them back out. How it must be filled with rats.
Also, there is a faint diagram for discreet nose-picking so as to encourage honesty. Three.
Four through Seven are tips on traveling. Like
never. ever. ever forget your toothbrush on a thirty-six hour train ride.
and always talk to Joe. He is lonely and full of America.
six. eat the alligator meat. it tastes just like chicken.
seven. don’t be afraid of cockroaches, they scatter at light the way flop-house tenants do at the word Eviction.
Also there is the anatomy of a lightbulb. Also a reminder of how the Northwest rain smells like summer asphalt lifted off the earth in invisible waves—how the waves look like telephone wires near the train tracks in texas—how the telephone wires hummm like copper—how copper tastes like blood—how blood has that tinny smell of rain. I don’t know what state to call home, so also, there is a list of cities I have been to. Short descriptions of how those cities smell in the rain.
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