System Twinging; Milo, for Nathan

This one is skinny, but it has sharp teeth. Loads of sharp teeth. It rolls over under stones in the garden or spikes gently over cracks in windows. It didn't ask for your name, and we are not sure if it can talk. In our deep sleep, it transmits gifts for you. We are broke and we don't know how accurate this list is anyway, but we thought you should know. It likes vertebrae. It will push a tongue, out of phase, through your spine until you feel a weight or a sticking point or a sludge dripping in vague trails. It's name is Milo. Milo arches, lifting up your feet like you imagine a fish that swims only in moonlight, without atmospheres, might do. It challenged the bridge of your nose to a dance contest, it waits for you to hum yourself to sleep. Milo likes to make toast and find movies to rent. Static and static and static and static and static and static and a faint melody wiring itself into identification as melodic waveform. And Milo, unsteady and curious, watches the flashpoint writ(h)ing of synapses from millions of miles away.