Saturday, February 11, 2012


You're a municipal object on which my thigh catches the instant kinky movement is attempted. Water on cancer. Tire tracks on a Pepsi can. Horizontal, mirror-smooth on the one side. Genetically engineered to stand there and express yourself like a road sign. Why don't you come out of hyperspace? Why don't you
make bumps and holes in toilet paper with your stilettos? Why don't you use voodoo to give my dog a severe case of bedhead? I love you, even though you're one of people, figures, shapes – one of the lawn chairs – adjusted to the picture with gum. Just another floatation. I'd like to find the ridiculous nucleus of the wet, white ball of crinkled newsprint, for it's a baby ghost. Which is cute. It's you; it's you in there seeming displeased with something. You wish that when your face expresses sincere anger, it would be comically contorted. Yes, it is, and your anger is totally out of context, and fellow gum-pasted creatures like you for it. Together we stand staring at an optical illusion of heaven. Is it safe to say that neurons hugged by sooty deposits have created it? The lights have come back on and I'm one of the lucky few to discover first hand the prehensility of the intermission clown's hair: grabbed over a distance of 16 meters, across 5 rows of seats. Detaching only when a voice says: “We're back! Ready for round 2!”

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