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Post Road Magazine #35

My Strategy & At Brooklyn Pickle

Christopher Kennedy

My Strategy

Like a song you love, this life is short and better because of it.

My strategy: remain small, walk the streets invisibly, wave goodbye before anyone knows I was here.

Once I saw a shrunken human head, eyes and lips sewn shut,face as smooth as an acorn, and wondered where its soul was.

My soul hides in the cabinet like a spider in a spaceship.

Exiled president of the hunger moon, I’m a light year away from my return.

 

At Brooklyn Pickle

I have issues with the sandwich place. Sun through plate glass like a golden blade. Bone cold loneliness of meat. Customers appearing to be more stable than they are, as if they couldn’t suddenly be sucked up in to the air. I wait for my sandwich, while a man with a face like a sheet of gray ice checks scores on his phone as his grandchildren roll across the mud-stained floor in a failed attempt to be noticed. Will no one stand up and scream, release the unbearable tension we all must be feeling? I can see on every face the desire for the ceiling to collapse, or the gunman to enter, weapon drawn, his mind a tangle of snakes, the longing for a small catastrophe to put an end to it all. At the end of the world, it will be just like this, a lethargy disguising the boiled nerves of the last humans at their feeding. The sandwich arrives. I unwrap and savor. Think it’s strange but necessary. Tear off a fringe of ham. I held a pig, once, and felt its beating heart.



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