Big budget poetry.

Names is for tombstones, baby. 

You’d be screaming too if you saw James Bond diving through the clouds, his indestructible skull aimed directly at the puddle of meat you call a body. With hearts for eyes, he sails toward me, between the murderous bolts of lightning that strike birds out of the sky. 

In the yard, a row of human tongues squeeze through a sprinkler, blowing raspberries. The rain comes down, and I run my fingers through my sopping wet hair. I might move somewhere nice tomorrow. Somewhere with a little bar. I don’t worry about getting lonely. Not when I fall in love so easily. 

Still, babies get made the same way movies do. And it’s better to be alone when you have random and blinding bursts of rage. I don’t want to be an actor, I want to be a different person. There won’t be more days like this. 

Nate Hoil could have been great. Now he lives in the pool house of a very expensive escort. Please send him five dollars so he can follow his dreams. Twitter: @natehoil

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