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By Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Film chemicals poisoned us. Toner and fixer made Kodak rivers. Even as we set our images in silver paper, we destroyed our fleshy selves. We drank in carcinogens, sweated out fluorides and hydrocarbons. Our bodies became bulbs streaming ozone.

I’m full of chlorine. The city pool is inside me. Goggled swimmers stroke up and down my ribcage.

Now Kodak has followed Polaroid into the bone-yard. We’ve gone digital. My wife’s gone surreal. She’s an i-phone on a neck. She’s still good in bed, still has big tits, but I can’t look her in the eye, there being no eye, only an i.

As I prepare for work, my brother’s in the next room with a spike in his arm. I couldn’t let him go homeless. I offer to make him meals but he has no appetite. I think he’s turning tricks for the drug.

I splash on cheap bay rum that smells strongly of cinnamon. Cinnamon is a natural anti-depressant. On the bus ride to work, a woman with chemical sensitivities glares at me. The bus has big heavy wheels. A friend of mine was once crushed beneath a bus’s wheels when she lost her balance on her bicycle. It could have been this bus. I worry about alienation, sexuality, income, income tax, my brother.

I glance at an abandoned newspaper. A four-star general has an affair with a triathlete. His dumpy wife is majorly pissed.

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over twelve-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.