a jet from atop the porch steps, the bed, the chair, the floor, rotating downward, coating the entire arc of vision with a slick red, broken into silhouettes by a shifted view.
or maybe through the pores---blood trickling in a sheeny coat, carving channels as through ice---no, cracking channels, like china, fractures spreading, then filling and flowing with golden ichor until the dome
collapses, a flower of eggshell pottery slabs petalling out and crashing, revealing as stamens a soup of coffee, used paper towels, ice cream, magazines (saved), a neat alphabetical stack of candy bar wrappers. oh, and a rage-tear sodden wad of notebook paper covered with inane words, futile scribbles, and obsessively created diagrams (if you spent just one-tenth the time). but
enough, best is an explosion, the junk combusts, sending the pottered flesh out in every direction but down (neck) until it curves back down, sprinkler, fireworks, spirea.
