by Sean Lovelace
Spleen is rustling ill. In that way honest. But also outcast, as in weird. Its tattoos have fallen off. “We refuse existence as condiment,” they inform Spleen. Spleen shrugs. Ruminates. Attempts a beetling frown. Finds a novel from a South American, and begins anew, a life of serious reading. Or some similar defection. Migration, up or down. A rumbling—cells rippling over kidney stones—either dubiety or hunger. Spleen makes a sandwich; names it silly, say Harvey Amsterdam. Washes it down with Fresca, and a beige pill. Spleen thinks: ADHD will either kill you or save your life: it depends on the millennium. Spleen holds so many theories, of pharmaceuticals. Of television. Reality shows condition us to endless surveillance. Intestine coils and recoils. Right Eye blinks: “Simmer down, Spleen—the hell you know about TV?” Brow adds, “You’re a classic over-thinker, Spleen.” Heart listens, thrums low, systole, diastole: what to do? Spleen bleeds on—may rupture soon. Overwhelmed again, Hand wrings, while Foot falls asleep.
