prickly raze on a day beset with yard_sales, you bring home a ten-dollar briefcase, a monkey-themed magazine, and a book about a churlish child. the greatest haul of all is a cross_eyed cactus that eats coins. the woman selling it only wanted a dollar. you felt that was an insult to the cactus, so you tripled the price. "careful," you say, handing me the synthetic succulent. "he's a little prickly." i run my fingers along his serrated spine, feed him a quarter, and feel i've found a friend. 260530 ... ovenbird When he pressed against me it was like being spooned by a cactus. I wanted to wear a long t-shirt to reduce the sensation of death by a thousand cocktail swords, but he wasn’t keen. I’m wary of bodies. Their weapons. Their demands. As a teenager I believed I was broken. These days there is vocabulary to describe the shape of my reality. And while words don’t mean understanding, they at least act as containers in which to place experience. I practice saying them out loud. I let myself try them on. I’m surprised at what fits. 261007 what's it to you? who go blather from