The Fan

idly, it sits. Lodged beneath its flimsy base is a thick book on European politics--something I took from a brother at a frat house last year. Books are the leaves of the tree of a semester. If a semester's a season, all the books must be shed. Seekers of homes for the bound bastards are like sexing rabbits. fruitful. And the shedding of a season's syllabi is what lead to the awkward angle at which my fan sits. the fan is in disuse. dormant. directed toward my face though. a crooked pentagram of wings sprouts from the dusty nucleus of oil and molten synthetic material. When the fuck will this fan be turned on again. I have no clue. How the fuck does it feel. A coiled, silver-buckled cinturón rests on a bed of books near the white, caged frame. I fear its asphyxiating powers. Wrap it around a lung, however and you get air. Unbuckle, rinse, repeat. This synthetic pump. I gaze at the arterial chords and the house is alive. It'll be gone before I fin