Oh! fellow travelers

Saturday, June 9, 2012

wake up

There is this burden in me, lays there, sleeping. Maybe there is light in there, maybe knowledge. I yell and hit it in my sleep, ‘wake up, sleeper, wake up!’ I tell it. Sometimes I think I’m already dead. Maybe this is where you go when you die: Nebraska. And you sit here, in some kind of deprivation purgatory, thinking you’re awake when you know deep down that the sleeper keeps sleeping. I read all the books I can find in purgatory, even the ones contraband to bible belt libraries. They come in blank wrapping, so nobody will know my wish, to wake the sleeper. They’d be uncomfortable knowing, because they’re so busy keeping themselves wrapped up in church hamburger feeds and kids’ softball games, mad oh mad! over the color or emblem emblazoned on jerseys. who’s the fool, who’s the fool? One who gets angry over what is, right there, before one’s eyes, or the one who’s angry with the burdensome sleeper? Why fight this battle when one could simply join them and debate what is and what ain’t sacrilege? I don’t care much for sacrilege, don’t care much for Jesus, or Jehovah, or any of them. I’m just too busy fumbling through the dark to worry about what they clutch onto and call the light. It’s not light, I say, just a worn out bulb pretending to be the last hand hold. They ask me smugly about evolution; I don’t say. I don’t confess to believing such nonsense anymore. Because he won’t wake up! he won’t wake up, and I know he could, because he’s not dead; I know that for sure, just hibernating. And just like that Quantum Leap guy, I keep thinking he will wake up, if I can only find the right book, read the right series of words, find the right clues, flip all of my thoughts upside down and inside out until I come out with truth and this bastard finally wakes up. 
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Monday, June 4, 2012

The girl who grew tired of books and movies entitled 'the girl who...'

us sand
There I am, the girl who dresses in handicapped chic and poses for photos on astroturf lawns in front of model houses. The girl who frequents them, sits in their chairs and lays in their beds. The girl who switches out their perfect family photos with photos of perfect people who inhabit Las Vegas, but happen to live in tunnels, under highways and on the streets. The girl who poses with dream catchers and cell phone towers who pretend to be trees, hoping that the very next quantum leap will be her last. That this might be the photo that finally says it, though she's not sure if she needs it to explain something to her, or if it needs to explain something to everyone else for it to be the last leap. The leap home, like on that sitcom.
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Everywhere you go, there's valet

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I always feel like an adventurer, stalking prey. The perfect moment, the perfect sky, the perfect car parked in the perfect spot. I feel as dizzy with excitement finding fictional tableaux in casino parking lots as some people do finding prickly monarch elfin pointed puffer eel in the depths of the Atlantic.
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Sunday, June 3, 2012

Life is Seussical.


It's like we know each other or something, just like casino shrimp cocktail. We enjoy this separately together.
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Saturday, June 2, 2012

Auctioneer like singing

I went to an auction today, one of those low brow rural affairs complete with lots of people sitting on couches sitting on lawns waiting to be sold and getting sweated on. I want to say, "Nobody gonna buy that after your sweaty ass sit on it all day," but this is the midwest, and we don't talk like that I guess. We just think like that. How many people got to walk by you thinking, "Get your sweaty ass on those vinyl chairs, we can wipe those off" until you read minds? And then all the people love to buy them some tools. Jebus, they still need them a hundred of em even when they 95 years old, and I'm thinking, 'what you need with a hand saw? you rockin' a walker, for chris's sakes. all you look like is a recipe for disaster carrying that saw out to your deluxe leather seat buick sedan,11 years old and only 20,000 miles on it. jebus chrisis!'
and so I wrote a song about it call, "bitch, you don't need another weed wacker, less it's going to be for donating to the cemetery."

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Friday, June 1, 2012

The suitcase, coffee pot, tea tray hoarder


Maybe, maybe I need more skis. Skis.
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Thursday, May 31, 2012

Do not disturb, tiny grass is dreaming


One time I saw this sign that said "Do not disturb, tiny grass is dreaming." This is translation, I knew exactly what they meant and I didn't even have to read it again in the language I didn't understand.   People said, "When you get old, things will be sooo hard," and I thought they meant like I'd lose my spouse to falling off a cliff or I'd have all of my appliances break at the exact same time once a month for three years or that I'd have those piles of bills like in infomercials for desk organizers. I didn't know they meant that if I knew about tiny grass dreaming, that it could temporarily defer the marching band that plays sooo loud in my head when I don't have it doused with booze and/or lithium, the feelings and dreams of ineptitude, of clutching anonymous feet because I'm on a sort of deck over a sort of auditorium, and all I know is fear of letting go of these mysterious ankles; all I know is the fear of being sucked down there, into the gymnasium's pit, pulled by that sideways and downwards gravity, the kind of scientific rationale they use in sci fi and scary movies. This dream, they say, is the fear of success.
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