What is Sprayed
on the Fruit Chest
Killed and Thrown
Nathan DRAGON
Just ask anyone what’s next now.
He’s been watching his sneeze rainbows lit up misty in the window. He’s got one foot up on the sill.
Uncomfortable and contemplative.
Fruits or veggies?
Is he really?
To the left of the window, there’s a beautiful blown out photo of the best fight between two unknown boxers there ever was. Everyone always talked about how it went eight rounds. They said seconds before the bell, too. Everyone always said what if it went nine. Imagine the history. Undisputed.
This photograph was hanging above a register the first time he saw it, inquired about it, heard a little bit of the back story, and the guy told him he’d make him a photocopy for ten.
He was so happy he wanted to shake hands. He thought he recognized one of the fighters in who he was shaking hands with—the way the guy's arm extended, like throwing a body shot.
Sipping water. Always a sip of water when a sip of water is what’s needed. Cups, jars, and mugs are in the cabinet to the right of the door. Water has to be mentioned. Having to drink it because it’s necessary. He thinks, Remember when you used to think it could be anything?
Some customary glance that concludes in one’s judging and confirming or denying the fact there is some kind of mechanism behind all this functioning.
It looks like it.
This instills jealousy, and being uneasy with happiness probably. He’s not sure. He imagines leaning neutral but all his going off on tangents.
Something seen through something translucent as one objective view of something beautiful.
Citruses like tangerines—clementines—cara cara oranges.
Once, he was told, Underpromise and overdeliver and we’ll be in a good place.
He’s been watching his sneeze rainbows lit up misty in the window. He’s got one foot up on the sill.
Uncomfortable and contemplative.
Fruits or veggies?
Is he really?
To the left of the window, there’s a beautiful blown out photo of the best fight between two unknown boxers there ever was. Everyone always talked about how it went eight rounds. They said seconds before the bell, too. Everyone always said what if it went nine. Imagine the history. Undisputed.
This photograph was hanging above a register the first time he saw it, inquired about it, heard a little bit of the back story, and the guy told him he’d make him a photocopy for ten.
He was so happy he wanted to shake hands. He thought he recognized one of the fighters in who he was shaking hands with—the way the guy's arm extended, like throwing a body shot.
Sipping water. Always a sip of water when a sip of water is what’s needed. Cups, jars, and mugs are in the cabinet to the right of the door. Water has to be mentioned. Having to drink it because it’s necessary. He thinks, Remember when you used to think it could be anything?
Some customary glance that concludes in one’s judging and confirming or denying the fact there is some kind of mechanism behind all this functioning.
It looks like it.
This instills jealousy, and being uneasy with happiness probably. He’s not sure. He imagines leaning neutral but all his going off on tangents.
Something seen through something translucent as one objective view of something beautiful.
Citruses like tangerines—clementines—cara cara oranges.
Once, he was told, Underpromise and overdeliver and we’ll be in a good place.
Nathan DRAGON has been published in Noon Annual, Fence and New York Tyrant.
DRAGON is from Salem, MA., and is working on a book of fictions.
Dragon’s work also appears in Hotel #6; see here.