Under the bigtop.
Someone typed the letter "z" and I did not object. I left it there for months. I wondered what it meant. I printed it out and put it up on my wall and on the days that I could not get up from my bed I stared at that "z" and I wondered. Sometimes I thought I knew its significance. Sometimes it all made sense. Most times I just hid my head under the covers and whispered, "Z z z z z z z z z." Then it stopped making sense and I felt at ease again.
I am a king of watches. I have forty watches. Three of them are broken. Seventeen of them tell you the correct time. The other twenty are un-accounted for but I still count myself the king of watches.
I can't remember the last time I watched baseball on television.
I can't remember the last time I was too drunk to remember my passcode.
I can't remember the last time I caught your eye on my way to the water fountain.
Moonlight has many secrets and they dance in front of us but we don't always read them right. Moonbeam literacy is at an all-time low. Most kids don't even have a moonbeam app, and most moonbeam apps are decidedly insufficient for actual moonbeam interpretations. It's a sign of the times.
Somewhere lost in a sea of sheets and down comforters there is a cat and she is humming Christmas songs to herself.
Inside me there are twelve cats and they are all in my head and they are all humming something or another. One of them is definitely humming Averil Lavigne but the rest of them seem to be noncommittal and they keep changing tunes, and playing with octaves, and then they get distracted from singing and they start play-fighting each other and yowling. I love the yowling. It's hard to concentrate but I still love the music cats make when they play-fight.
I thought about being a soldier in the army of love but they wouldn't have me, my love skills are a little rusty. I might be inherently incapable of love. Depends whom you ask. I wouldn't put my ex on my application for the army of love that's for sure.
When do we get to play outside? It's been forty days of rain and my throat hurts.
I saw a French bread ghost on my way home and it reminded me of when my mother used to make French Toast from scratch. For us. For dinner. It was a special thing. A funny thing. We all ate too much of it and felt sick but never did we regret eating too much of it.
Now that I am done being a dreamer and I am just an atom bouncing around, I have to say, it was a joy to dream. Someday I'd like to do it again, if I am permitted. Who will permit me?
Down in the canyon I count the bones. It's a habit. It soothes me. It gives me a sense of order and harmony. It helps me forget that everything around is burnt to a crisp and nothing lives anymore, and I don't either. I am just counting bones to pass the time. The wind blows and nothing lives on it. Nothing travels on the wind. No sound, no seeds, no sands. It is an empty wind. It is a hollow life. But I go on with the bone-counting and when I run out of bones I count the names of people whose faces I can still remember. The list gets a little shorter and I get a little bit sleepier every time. But count. I count.
In the middle of a saga, the author interjects to remind the readers that it's all nonsense and it's all allegory and they should have already been convinced to change their lives by now and if they aren't inspired at this point in the epic then they are probably worthless saps and shouldn't even bother with the rest of the saga. Whenever I get to that part in the book my hands shake and I feel a little timid, afraid to look in the mirror. I don't show up in the mirror much.
I have this rock in my pocket. It's smooth. Curvy and smooth and I run my fingers over it whenever I reach into my pocket. I remember when and where I picked up this rock. Willow River State Park. I remember that place, dimly.
In the alleyway a stubborn sunflower grows sideways in the moonlight. In the alley in the moonlight. Mood lighting for stubborn plants.
This must be the play I've always wanted to write.
This must be the placemat I've scribbled on too many times.
This must be the place where I stop and realize my eyes are dripping.
I am a king of watches. I have forty watches. Three of them are broken. Seventeen of them tell you the correct time. The other twenty are un-accounted for but I still count myself the king of watches.
I can't remember the last time I watched baseball on television.
I can't remember the last time I was too drunk to remember my passcode.
I can't remember the last time I caught your eye on my way to the water fountain.
Moonlight has many secrets and they dance in front of us but we don't always read them right. Moonbeam literacy is at an all-time low. Most kids don't even have a moonbeam app, and most moonbeam apps are decidedly insufficient for actual moonbeam interpretations. It's a sign of the times.
Somewhere lost in a sea of sheets and down comforters there is a cat and she is humming Christmas songs to herself.
Inside me there are twelve cats and they are all in my head and they are all humming something or another. One of them is definitely humming Averil Lavigne but the rest of them seem to be noncommittal and they keep changing tunes, and playing with octaves, and then they get distracted from singing and they start play-fighting each other and yowling. I love the yowling. It's hard to concentrate but I still love the music cats make when they play-fight.
I thought about being a soldier in the army of love but they wouldn't have me, my love skills are a little rusty. I might be inherently incapable of love. Depends whom you ask. I wouldn't put my ex on my application for the army of love that's for sure.
When do we get to play outside? It's been forty days of rain and my throat hurts.
I saw a French bread ghost on my way home and it reminded me of when my mother used to make French Toast from scratch. For us. For dinner. It was a special thing. A funny thing. We all ate too much of it and felt sick but never did we regret eating too much of it.
Now that I am done being a dreamer and I am just an atom bouncing around, I have to say, it was a joy to dream. Someday I'd like to do it again, if I am permitted. Who will permit me?
Down in the canyon I count the bones. It's a habit. It soothes me. It gives me a sense of order and harmony. It helps me forget that everything around is burnt to a crisp and nothing lives anymore, and I don't either. I am just counting bones to pass the time. The wind blows and nothing lives on it. Nothing travels on the wind. No sound, no seeds, no sands. It is an empty wind. It is a hollow life. But I go on with the bone-counting and when I run out of bones I count the names of people whose faces I can still remember. The list gets a little shorter and I get a little bit sleepier every time. But count. I count.
In the middle of a saga, the author interjects to remind the readers that it's all nonsense and it's all allegory and they should have already been convinced to change their lives by now and if they aren't inspired at this point in the epic then they are probably worthless saps and shouldn't even bother with the rest of the saga. Whenever I get to that part in the book my hands shake and I feel a little timid, afraid to look in the mirror. I don't show up in the mirror much.
I have this rock in my pocket. It's smooth. Curvy and smooth and I run my fingers over it whenever I reach into my pocket. I remember when and where I picked up this rock. Willow River State Park. I remember that place, dimly.
In the alleyway a stubborn sunflower grows sideways in the moonlight. In the alley in the moonlight. Mood lighting for stubborn plants.
This must be the play I've always wanted to write.
This must be the placemat I've scribbled on too many times.
This must be the place where I stop and realize my eyes are dripping.