none of you critics pointed out the superfluity of our times. superfluity has a way of fixing itself to my doorknob which falls off when i sleep. there are 10 billion new ways of throwing fruit at the actors but only one you. you’re the one unique thing in the universe. everything else has been multiplicated and put into a storage chamber where space is through expanding if they can’t find new ways to compress things. my mother, who cooks new dishes everyday, remarked on the ephemeral nature of crockery and that she can’t find her good pots anymore – even while she knows they’re there. i pluck nose hairs. on turtle day i try to get my friend spencer to do my chores. it takes him a long time to recognize my voice when i call him from the bottom of turtle bay. i usually surface right about noon. it’s later in the evening when we get together for shadow puppeteering. my fingers on the wall resemble tendrils on a sponge. his look like a dog made out of balloons unfocused due to inadequate screen resolution. fortune smiles down like a crescent moon wavy on the water’s surface. but suffering is just another way of selling canned goods.
i’m shell shocked you are here relatively unscathed. your skin doesn’t drip from your body. your armor doesn’t sting my eyes. your horse is quite spectacular and i’d like to be in your employ. i’m pleading to be heard like the explosion whose resistance was futile and the carnival barkers drunk. after the noon glory there will be camel races and a ponce de leon theme party. i’m pretty sure they’re holding a wake in the wee wee hours of the t.v. glimmering. but you’re unique. you sit above it all. i’m relying on you to tell the universe which way to expand and i’m trying to shine in your example.
fate is a fickle furlough when all you have to offer has left for finishing school and quit brushing its teeth. or so i imagine sitting on my toadstool waiting for devolution to finally reveal its recipe for crème brûlée. there are many things to think about here but none of them are unthought or arranged in such a way as to remind me of my former lives as told to me by some old hag i couldn’t truss up in truth armor and drown to see if she was real.
it’s been told, or so i have heard, that when everybody finally feels the rush of realization the drains of freedom will clear the pipes all the way to their exit in an alternate universe, one devoid of reason or care.
