Satisfaction of Process
Other people's fame is a gruesome fish slouched in my favorite
recliner, smoking cigars and burning holes and dying. The fish is a
grayish carp that believes fanatically in Midwestern family
values, and it is definitely hacking death phlegm onto my face.
I'm pretty sure I'm pregnant.
I accidentally go to a poetry reading. Certain I have been murdered by
that professor's poem about moonlight on a stagnant field of grass, I
hole up in a locked coffin and quit writing for one hundred thousand
years. I give up more than ever. Every day I make my boyfriend bring me
McDonald's, invent new ways to avoid plots and characters, make some
sloppy boomerangs out of the guts of other people's stories, and cackle
as I chuck them out imaginary windows where they behead poet passersby
whose chicken necks rain shit and blood all over everybody.
This (ta da!) is what I call "Satisfaction of Process," which is so
easy and thrilling and rewarding until you crawl back out into the
miserable light of day, or click-click-click by accident into the
razor-jaws of the internet.
Megan Martin's NEVERS—a book of fictions which this work is from—is just out from Caketrain.
Detail of photo on main page courtesy
of Noukka Signe.
W i g l e a f