Remembering Dismembering David Duchovny

David Duchovny’s brain is heavy.
All the better to contemplate you with, he says.
Next out is his tongue.
It hides its head beneath its wing, purrs from deep within its chest.
I cup it in my hands and feel its tiny heartbeat.
I throw it out of the window where it catches a thermal and glides away.
I’ve had Duchovny tongues before.
It will bring me gifts: ring pulls, foil from cigarette packets, needles.
Beautiful but ultimately useless.
David Duchovny’s arms come off by themselves.
If you want a job doing properly…, they mutter.
They set to work pulling back skin.
Taking out sinew, muscle, strings of delicate, blue galaxy.
His palms roll dice with their own knuckle bones.
I chop Duchovny with an axe. With a knife. With a razorblade.
David Duchovny has no blood to dampen my sleeves.
I chop down into his DNA. I chop his atoms until they’re the size of planets.
I rack David Duchovny into infinite lines of fine white powder.
We know that David Duchovny is more than the sum of his parts.
He represents truth and knowledge, a hint at the great unknown.
We can use David Duchovny to access infinity.
My wizard’s hat is slipping down.