Mathias Svalina

I want to sit in Airport for the rest of my life. I want another hysterec-tomy. Every part of me is optional in Airport, but my neck spills down me like a Cold War border & a body is only as scary as you make it be. Too much neck, in fact, a whole lotta neck, neck like a lorgnette, gentle as a cuticle. But I forget the motto of Airport. I forget some people like themselves. I remove your pants each night to see the detour sign blink with wrong dongles lining the sidewalks, wrong way to cultivate a gameface. Maybe Airport is a museum—I don’t read the fineprint of infanticides. I’m not me when I mispronounce my name. I am sick to death, this face I me.