I hear the dishwasher squeak like little mischievous
mice in plot to overturn their wet world. I
recall last night that I was shot with round lead
bullets, from a musket from 1865. It hurt, like
a minor heart attack or a bit of an ablation. It's
sad when mice sing songs in the dishwasher, songs
of a lonely heart broken with their little feet
made of cartilage and flappy skin. Smiling with
buck teeth doesn't endear them to my wife or
to me. They squeak. And scurry. Why scurry
if innocent? The days are ending when the dishes
are quiet in their hideaway rocking back and forth
knocking wine glasses off their high horse. There is
folly in the other room, and folly in this here room –
these words are scratched at, known to be meaningless
and filled with nothing. If nothing could be
logically analyzed where would we find the empty
conclusion? These little gifts of a broken down
prostituted muse have wormed their way into
some part of my head that I don't quite understand.
Could it be the Greek that I claim to study?
I'm cheating. Torn blue jeans are inevitable. Like
books on a rainy Sunday. Intemperate I crawl
back into the clothes I mocked yesterday on the drunk
passed out in his own urine behind the liquor store's
dumpster. Sleep could be sound. And silent. The little
man who watches her count the coupons on her new
shiny pocket book smiles to himself in some crooked
sly way – knowing things not known before.
Shiny little truths like ink on paper, discarded
with last year's hit movie. What was the
name? Yeah, that one. Where words are crammed
in people's mouths like cinnamon rolls gushy and
tasty but left with nothing but a false high
and lard. Foi gras is easier on my hand than
this writing. Need to slow down this fast writing
before my hand cramps into a masturbator's clutch.
How droll. Stop the coach.