Dawson’s got his fingers in a brain? Lighting up like mighty, bright, white lightbulbs. Finger in a brain. Fingering a brain. In a brain. A brain. Brain. A part of the central nervous system. Dawson’s got his fingers in the central nervous system. Nervous maker.
What’s his system; Dawson, what you up to, man? Get out of that brain. You cat, you. That MRI will find you. Only if it’s a T3 or better though. Go to Buffalo. Like little fingers reaching through the mind, pulling thoughts this way and that. Pulling muscles, making them rustle, this way and that. Pulling limbs out from under. Can’t play a cello no more, fingers won’t comply. Hello. Can’t dance no more, can’t wear high heels. There’s a middle finger. A peace sign. A rock star gesture.
How many fingers are you holding up Dawson? Many nerves. Around certain curves. The body is avant-garde. Ezra, may pound his fists with fingers about this, dude.
Did a Stephen Hawking fall? Pain in legs, stingers, zingers, some real ringers. Deep bone. Baritone sings a song about this. Caulking the bathroom tiles to keep everything together. Muscles twitch in the ditch. Neck pain, strangulation, in this nation. Burden ahead, squeezes tight with all it’s might. Dawson take a hike. Through the mic.
- Prompt: fingers
- Form: prose
- Device: assonance