My love for you is a severed head preserved in cryogenic storage, locked in an abandoned facility in the former Soviet Union. My love for you will be accidentally thawed in the year 2066 by bioterrorists who purchased access codes to the secret cryogenic facility on the black market based on questionable intelligence leading them to believe the facility contained a super-virus capable of wiping out lactose intolerance but with possible side effects of oozing sores and retinal bleeding. By the year 2066, I have become an itinerant typesetter and you are a stallion. My love tracks you down, watches you run free through soft focus lenses, reports back to me in Iceland. The only words I can make out through the haze of red tears are “mistake” and “volcanoes”.
I had never thought about ninjas but now I am writing a novel about ninjas.
Ninjas are the new zombies are the new vampires.
Ninjas are silent killing machines on the outside but have smoldering sensitive love lives buried within.
Ninjas are hella complex.
Ninjas just cannot stop diving head first into life, into curiosity and situations like people who are willing to misrepresent everything about themselves and lie shamelessly for forty dollars because of addiction.
Ninjas sneak up on you silently in the night while you are making love and place a glass of refreshing ice water on your bedside table.
Ninjas will never let you down.
Ninjas live in the deepest part of the ocean and/or the dark side of the moon.
Ninjas go microscopic and hitch a ride on cold sweat.
Ninjas position puppies strategically to maximize cute disarmament.
Ninjas jump from cliff to cliff, grow old and die.
Ninjas love other ninjas and leave them for samurai.
Neal Kitterlin is a poet who lives in Matteson, Illinois with his wife and daughter. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK, HOUSEFIRE, NAP, Red Lightbulbs and other places. Find him at infinitegestures.tumblr.com or on twitter @NealKitterlin.