by Gregory Sherl
Dana Scully's baby fetus is in a test tube filled with green liquid that reminds me of Surge. I write in my journal Spitting on ghosts. Nobody's told me this but I've figured it out: It's okay to spit on ghosts because they don't have any salivary glands to produce any spit to spit back. It is less safe to spit on aliens because how do we know if they have salivary glands? The Cancer Man is always shooting them in the head after they've crash-landed in a desert or are excavated from an iceberg. Alternative title for The X-Files: Everyone Is Weird. I write in my journal Mulder loves Scully so much but you can't kill the sexual tension in the fourth season. All of my tweets end with #fuck. Dana tells me the sexual tension isn't real—it's just acting. She shows me a paycheck and then points to the house we've been sleeping in since she put on an FBI badge. Even though it's dawn, I refuse to sleep after finishing an episode and it's like TO BE CONTINUED and Mulder is over in fucking Russia, somewhere Slavic maybe, and there's this black goop in him because they chained him to a table and dropped the black goop into in his mouth and nose and eyes. Meanwhile, Scully won't tell anyone where he is but she should probably tell everyone because the black goop went from being on him to being in him and now his eyes look like polished mud. Goddamn, this beating heart. Dana is like Stop watching me on TV and come watch me in real life. When we are sharing the same air, I am always pouring her wine. She's always undressed by the time she reaches the top stair. She won't let me bring the phone to bed so my tweets don't end with anything.
Gregory Sherl's most recent collections include The Oregon Trail is the Oregon Trail and Heavy Petting. His third poetry collection, Monogamy Songs, will be out this summer. He blogs at http://gregorysherlisgregorysherl.com.