POST OFFICE
Arrested coming out of the post office after mailing your letter and the rats could smell my words still on my collar, but under my sleeve was the one thing that they didn't plan on. Just as the man in the suit from Vice was reading me my rights, an officer grabbed my hand and brought it around my back. I turned, releasing that hand at the wrist. Another one stripe grabbed my shoulder and I gave him my whole arm, separate. There was no blood, no snap, just a sigh. The detective jostled back to the car and snatched the radio for backup. The cop who tried to cuff me was shooing my hand into a corner by the door of the post office. The hand looked confused, the same look as it had when writing your letter. The other officer just let my arm fall - then grabbed me in a headlock. He wrenched it under his arm and I let go of the face, the wince and grimace you no longer see. Imagine. I stood straight up, my head apart from my body now. A news van pulled up. I walked my torso around to the front of the policeman holding my head. He screamed and my head flew into the air, spiraling, as the detective tackled my body from behind - severing me at the waist. My head landed in the rubbery shrubbery near the officer trying to corral the hand. I wiggled my jaw feverishly and fell out of the bushes onto the sidewalk, faced away from the scene. All that I could see was my legs running up the street. I flashed on what you wrote about how I should move to New York. More grist for my mill. That was their direction. Doors slammed and there was a scampering of feet that sounded like a stampede with my ear to the concrete. I saw my left hand scurry around to the front of my face and hook my mouth with the index finger, rotating my head on my ear to face the scene where I could see that there was a lot of commotion about my dismembered parts. My upper body was flapping around, rocking in spasms. The News was asking the detective, "Which part do you arrest? The hand for writing, the head for thinking, or the heart -"
Arrested coming out of the post office after mailing your letter and the rats could smell my words still on my collar, but under my sleeve was the one thing that they didn't plan on. Just as the man in the suit from Vice was reading me my rights, an officer grabbed my hand and brought it around my back. I turned, releasing that hand at the wrist. Another one stripe grabbed my shoulder and I gave him my whole arm, separate. There was no blood, no snap, just a sigh. The detective jostled back to the car and snatched the radio for backup. The cop who tried to cuff me was shooing my hand into a corner by the door of the post office. The hand looked confused, the same look as it had when writing your letter. The other officer just let my arm fall - then grabbed me in a headlock. He wrenched it under his arm and I let go of the face, the wince and grimace you no longer see. Imagine. I stood straight up, my head apart from my body now. A news van pulled up. I walked my torso around to the front of the policeman holding my head. He screamed and my head flew into the air, spiraling, as the detective tackled my body from behind - severing me at the waist. My head landed in the rubbery shrubbery near the officer trying to corral the hand. I wiggled my jaw feverishly and fell out of the bushes onto the sidewalk, faced away from the scene. All that I could see was my legs running up the street. I flashed on what you wrote about how I should move to New York. More grist for my mill. That was their direction. Doors slammed and there was a scampering of feet that sounded like a stampede with my ear to the concrete. I saw my left hand scurry around to the front of my face and hook my mouth with the index finger, rotating my head on my ear to face the scene where I could see that there was a lot of commotion about my dismembered parts. My upper body was flapping around, rocking in spasms. The News was asking the detective, "Which part do you arrest? The hand for writing, the head for thinking, or the heart -"
-The detective silenced him by reaching into his cot and pulling out his .45. My hand was wedging under my cheek like a scared salamander under a rock. My fingers flipped my face, my head rolling down the sidewalk. I saw the mail truck, like a kaleidoscope, pulling out of the drive. My letter was inside.
My head stopped.
The driver smiled.
His hands turned the wheel.
You'll get me - whole.
I heard
only
one
shot.
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