I stepped into the fog of my breath. I removed my otter mask. My heart was a chapter from an audiobook about betrayal and abandoned love. A bat had been projected onto low cloud like a tattoo that comes off in the shower. It began to rain and the rain tasted like the makeup my cousin left in my mouth when we kissed on a mound of decaying Phantom comics. Her name was Pennyroyal. The past tense is a grave. I looked into my myself like a pilgrim on the way to an ashram in a mapless country where the birds sing phrases from every hero franchise in every format including the secret code in the introduction, in 1962, of Spider Man, which can be found in the facial lines of the character Richard Wentworth, aka The Spider, who now resides behind a sheet of obsidian in the head of an Australian poet who makes the word ‘obscure’ seem like child’s play in a game of Russian Roulette using white ghost desert scorpions. I am in trouble. If anyone notices the smoke from my distress over any city with a name that sounds like Carrion, please help. I have a revolver loaded with metaphors and I’m not afraid to use it