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Organic Honey
by Gracjan Kraszewski

To place a finger inside the buzzing madness; no, just the tip of a digit, the outer recess of a trimmed and treated fingernail, coruscated with antihistaminatic polish. His life would be complete, his pièce de résistance actualized. Ever seen Marc’s Tierschicksale?  Imagine the work synchronistically medled with absolute zero— the enthalpy-enthropy minimum, as in Maunder Minimum Qv. Great Frost of 1709—and upward lightning and the guy who cleaned out his Flatbush apartment between 12:02 and 4:06 AM one April morning, leaving only his laptop, lying open on the middle of the floor with the charger plugged in and taped to the wall, Gladys Knight’s most famous song blaring on repeat.

The name’s Jay-David Bartholomew Dlop by the way, thank you very much. If acquinatances move from vous to tu, “Mr. Platypus Dlop” is his preferred address.

“Three, two, one…,”  he pulls back his finger. “Five, four, three, two…” Coward. Dlop installed a hot tub below it, shortly after first laying eyes on what he calls “Mount Moby-Dick Everest.”

Perhaps it’s the way one approaches a problem.  He climbs into the water. Tecates are chugged. He steadies himself. He begins to raise his hand toward the goal. No need for liquid courage. No need for anything anymore. The hive has fallen, onto his head.