"Distribution," "The Gears of War," and "Synapse"

Distribution

I store away years on the remote chance I may live them again. I give myself a new name daily. This is a list of things to do in bed when nothing means what it seems, for instance, the shot glasses we filled with spent laughter, that wordless agreement with a locked door, the closet which may or may not contain a man, the morning of the folded note. In some distant galaxy the stars line up and laugh, so today I will tell you my new name. Today I will unlock that door and unfold that note. I will tell you the speed of light is the distance a touch travels in a dark closet.

The Gears of War

We explore soft minutes with interlocked fingers, while in a building half a world away another man sits waiting for death to lick his ear like a lover. Death has written him a letter wishing him well and letting the man know that death will come to visit soon. It begins, Dear John, and immediately music can be heard as if at a wedding or a funeral. Armies amass on the shores of a continent. Banners and flags wave. An invasion is imminent. Refugees stream toward barbed-wired borders and thin children cry. Panic ensues. Back into bed, we must hurry.

Synapse

I am the only suspect in a murder, so I open the drawer and show her the moon shining on my ribs. Outside it is raining. It is always raining. There is some lightning made from her laughter. There is a gun made from the darkness of a bedroom. And there are bullets made of discarded sighs. In the small hours of a former life, convictions give way to a route through familiar neural pathways. A long look in the mirror, a gleaming knife, and I’m still standing in the bright rain at that convenience store.