Holiday Music

I receive a spam email on Christmas Eve.

From it a foghorn sounds, and small lights shine within it.

After filtering, I gather it really concerns me.

 

Begin to circle, aunts.

A seal point Siamese

haunts the rafters. A quail

nailed to the wall proclaims

Taxidermy was my cause

of death, but that’s history.

 

An hour in the oven

leaves the email a little

dry. I garnish it with tech

industry newsletters and

perishable coupon codes.

 

I reply all.

I forward.

I think

 

I left the pumpkin pie

in the basement. While you're

down there can you check

to see if I'm still purring?

 

An error has occurred. An items [sic] is failing.

 

Sincerely,

Nickname

 

 

 

 

Dispatch from an Inbox

Did you stumble into my mouth, or did my mouth

stumble into a shattered sentence fragment with you

 

as its object? Lately I have been sorry for experiencing

high call volume, even though everyone keeps hanging

 

up on me. These boys are by no means angels the radio

broadcaster says, and here in the control room

 

of a deconstructed flower I know what it’s like

to watch sleep ride off into the sunset, having

 

been hunted, and having hunted. You see,

there was a black door, and a white door,

 

and an axe in my hands. There was a woman

saying I don’t know whatever’s blooming

 

right now but it’s killing me. I assume it’s not

the dogwoods but the dogs in cars all howling

 

at Venus through the moonroofs of their masters,

and from the guts of a misty cul-de-sac, a sign:

 

You have reached an inactive mailbox. This is

an automatic reply. No one is reviewing your email.