This Is Christmas Metazen

25. Mystery moments of devotion. The sound of running water maybe, or someone falling.

26. Hawk Love, crushed.

27. My daily dread.

-What do you do?

-Not a damn thing.

28. Something to carry in my mouth.

29. Nick, are you lonely up there?

30. Nick, you owe me 14 pink Zippo lighters, as you well know.

31. A device for breaking memory.

32. What kind of name is Gary? I want a spray canister that removes names. Gary as _________.

33. I will keep the hotel room above my studio apartment and I will go out the window here, climb up to the roof, and use my swipe card to enter my hotel room. I’ll be needing cable, but would prefer no internet service. Oh, and a bathtub. I want a bathtub.

34. Teeth contact.

35. Reindeer loin.

36. Shelia, you know Sheila. Fuck, you know everybody. Bring me her gall bladder in a glass banana. Sort of modern sculpture I can set out and ignore.

37. I pledge the possible Chlamydia to the jet lag….

38. My own contractors. Make the walls bend. Make four taps, I want four silver taps installed above my toilet, the little toady toilet in my little toady cave in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with the medi-vac helicopter thumping overhead my hangover-skull, wires of transmission—You, in the helicopter, oh fucked one, fucked broken stranger, I am sorry to ignore you now (as you will ignore me later in my time of need)—just four silver fowing taps: codeine cough syrup, coffee, Pepto Bismol, white wine.