Thorny Sap

Michael slaps his forearm as he      thumbs through a      book of epitaphs, inscriptions cemented upon a brown volume filled with tacky sheets holding memories under the spotlight      like that prickly      crown of thorns filled with creamy sedation. He cranks the volume on his tiny speaker hoping to cling to Stevie Nicks'      familiar gravel smoothing      with pungent aroma reminiscent of wood-chips and coriander, until a twitching, frenetic squirrel emerges with mange in his scowl.      He darts with corduroy      fingers through a navy backpack filled with bandages, alcohol and jangling pill bottles before sighing in the serene orange permeating beneath      the direct label      warning of risk. Despite the tremors and menacing stings, he mashes the crispy shell with a spoon.