swallowed raze this book is a dynamic microphone, burnished and black and compact enough to sleep in your pocket without calling attention to itself. you absorb its words by eating the grille and all it guards. you chew through the capsule, mash the magnet between your teeth, and taste what you can't see: a woman refusing to snuff out the small life growing inside of her, hitching a ride out of town, running from family bound only by blood and into an uncertain but urgent hereafter. by the time you've swallowed the last sentence, you've forgotten where you are. every gas station is a ghost town with a vestigial head that makes promises it couldn't keep even when the body that brewed it was still breathing. these streets have stories of their own to tell. you burn their names into the marrow of your mind and strain to see who you might be when this makeshift meal has had its way with you. 260115 what's it to you? who go blather from