Thursday, January 26, 2006

7: Interlude 3

Violence towards coffee is the subject of our next review, and everything means something to someone. The spoken word performance will take place in the future; preparation is the breakfast of the hesitant. When I approach a subject, I try to be sure of the outcome. I was fairly certain. I was walking on a sea of dimes. I was wringing out that bankroll honey, contemplating the well-dressed elite.

Afterwards, I smoked a cigar. The intervening hours are like a farce to me now; I am not time's bitch. I went to sleep thinking about what I would wake up thinking about. There was no surprise. No dream. No poison. No subtlety. No sickness. So what was there? Violins, for a start. An unrelated absence nevertheless noted. Baloney sandwiches and graham crackers.

What do you do when a kangaroo tells you there are no pickles in the gin? I mixed a green martini and hopped around in the hopes that it would seem congenial. I got into the habit of getting my way, particularly when I felt I was right. It always worked before. And so it becomes a matter of out-hopping the kangaroo. Oh, the insufferable conceit of such a venture!

I have this feeling, though, that a big black beetle will tear down my small house and build a rutabaga warehouse. What then? Where shall I store my miniscule trophy collection? Where shall I put my collection of exotic hats? Where once stood my ideas of four walls and a roof, farmers will be storing their rutabagas. Damn that big black beetle.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

6: Interlude 2

My mirror is a stargazer. At night you can find it on my roof, gazing upwards, as though searching for I know not what. What does it see in the lofty depths of the universe? By morning, it has reclaimed its place over my bathroom sink and shows me to myself, a galaxy of one. I have to imagine the contrast is interesting. On the one hand, you have the fullness of the night sky with its million pinpricks, and on the other hand you have my face. In the end, it's all speculation; my mirror doesn't like to talk about it. When I ask it, it just gets that faraway look of my reflection blurring and says nothing.

I used to imagine that if you lay a mirror down on the ground with its face to the sky, you could dive into it as though it were a pool and find yourself swimming in a reflected sky. So, flying, really. I would dip and soar and eventually fly out into space and become a star myself. Then my mirror would go out on the roof after I've gone to bed and see me twinkling on high.

My mirror is searching for me.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

5: Interlude 1

I need to find an unattached brick made of fluorescent pine cones so I can make a fish.

I need a barrel of pajamas to teach me to play the mango.

I need an automatic disposable language flinger to brandish a gothic olive in the direction of the nearest unfitted nasal twinge.

I need to climb to the top of the next available kitten ranch so that the continent of South America will be on time for its appointment with a bucket of perforated steam shovels.

My life can be a little complicated.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

4: Storyline 1.4

What had at first glance appeared to be a field of strawberries was in fact a toaster factory. I stood on holy ground. Here was where the countertop altars had their source.

The bread is an offering, placed lovingly in the sconces that hold it. The toaster gleams in the morning sunlight. What is the pushing down of the lever if not a genuflection? The waiting teaches us the transience of time's passage. The miracle is heralded by a creaky springing noise as there emerges not the offering placed there, but an entirely new substance of such divine structure and texture as to support all manner of toppings. The potency of its holy energy will burn your fingers if you hold onto it for too long, so you must be quick as you transfer it from the altar to your plate. And then the toast is yours to do with as you will.

And now I stood in the place where all that wonder began.