excerpt from Suicide by Language
(a flash-fiction novel)

I never knew such elation as the hours leading up to my suicide.

Soloiste! Soloiste!

They point at me and scream, Soloiste! Soloiste!

I scream back at them, Agoniste! Agoniste!

There are no flowers here. There is the dandelion, of course, but no daisy. How does your garden grow, I asked the fox, as she lay on her back with her mouth open pretending to be dead. Just as the Devil lies in wait to trap the unwary, I never run straight ahead, she said, but always follow a tortuous path.

My soul is among lions. I went through fire and through water.

Hath the rain a father?

I took the Vespa, because I want to have her arms around me always.

This is Bobbin. She was named for a mechanical part. If you want to stretch a sweater, sleep in it.

She fell asleep at the writing table. I took her in to bed. I returned to her writing and read, where it began in a letter to Cabala Girl, Angel, when I heard the news I made the sign of the cross for you.

She fell asleep at the writing table. I took her in to bed. I returned to her writing and read, where it began in a letter to Timon, Deliver yourself from revenge, that is your bridge to the highest hope. I have met him and the impression is not good. How does one say, sour breath and rotten teeth. Or, what is the opposite of charming. We read, Psalm 38, and there is no soundness in my flesh, for my loins are filled with a loathsome disease. We’re all looking forward to be meeting again in that great golden cornflake in the sky.

She fell asleep at the writing table. I took her in to bed. I returned to her writing and read, where it began in a letter to Justine, I cannot tell when you are lying. Ask yourself, is this someone you want to have a weekend with?

She fell asleep at the writing table. I took her in to bed. I returned to her writing and read, where it began in a letter to Supergirl, My favorite scene is where you are relaxing. I want to have cigarettes with you.

She fell asleep at the writing table. I took her in to bed. I returned to her writing and read, where it began in a letter to Juliette, There is a night I will never forget, and it is what I will remember you by always. It was not meant to be a sleepover. It was snowing, and it was snowing forever. You walked me to the door and I was about to leave but when I saw the snow I was taken by the most superstitious fear. You did not plan for me to stay over. And in the morning your mother (and her boyfriend—I remember him, he was a student) made waffles.

The next morning I read in Jung that the basket is a symbol for the maternal body (for the womb — a basket of fruit may symbolize fertility). A basket may also hide a secret.

To be poetic is everything. The poet’s mechanicity. Fabulosity. How do I love thee? You are my yellow submarine.