What I hunted was the toothless jackal. The Toothless Jackal in the upright industry, in the landscape of poles, where one eats with bleeding gums. I invented chicken-wire orthodontics. I wrapped the wire around the teeth and laced the poor girl's mouth shut. Metallic. Traps and traps alike. The jeep was cold and liquid in the night, under the moon, and from the passenger seat one could survey the passing landmarks. The jackals leaped in and out of existence, aloof and hapless, retiring like phantoms into the tomb. I myself have teeth. The girl was in the back of the jeep, laughing from within her wire-cell prison mouth. I touched the lace and the floss, and gripped the handle of the shotgun. Horse hair pistol scopes are best when spotting a toothless jackal. He is now on my wall.
Life in the jungle, Jesus and the lizards, those mosquitoes pick on my skin and bones.
Life in the jungle, Jesus and the lizards, those mosquitoes pick on my skin and bones.
