The bag hung an inch from then solid ground. Could it still be considered dirty? Impure or fouled? It had touched other grounds, yes. None of which were sacred, because nothing was nor had been for a long time now.
"Just put down the bag," she said.
"Nah, I'm good," he responded. As he usually would, unless he didn't; in which case he would just raise both eyebrows and thin out his lips as if to say: this is how I am me.
Later, down the path that hair and skin takes, more or less stayed the same. All the world was washed clean by rain or by pipe and there it all sunk, back into that same filthy ground held together by heat and exhaustion.
In two separate lodgings, across a not-so-breadthy lake, two lovers stood facing their side of the shore-water's edge, touching their anonymous private parts -- not so fervently, but rather with quite a soft and longingly loving touch -- behind walls, but facing each other, the magnetism too distracted to feel any true pull, but certainly not pushing them further apart, and they stared forlorn at the lake. Sleeping in each of the beds next to these statues of moonlit magnificence, were two separate celestial bodies, hosts dreams of past events, some filled with joy and some with sadness, and not to be called by any fancy Greek or Roman names: these were just star people. Not Apollo nor Persephone, just star person one and star person two. Or two and four, in this story. Or three and four, depending on how it seems. Or six billion four hundred seventy-seven thousand eight hundred and two, or so on and so forth...
The as yet to be determined to be defiled bag swayed in a hovering rhythm not unlike a wrecking ball. Inside were all those things we carry. When we are going someplace. Someplace that isn't where we sleep and just for the day.
The lakeside lovers knew not to complete the act. It would be too distracting and neither of them sure that was even what it was about. Neither of them even sure the other had the sense. The natural sense is to stay and make due and proceed. So they decided to do that, separately, and forever so. And so not a stir from the bedside and not a stir in the room. Only two slivers of light in two kitchens and two bowls of cereals getting drenched by two separate streams of moonlit milk.
One thought of Seventy-six Trombones. The other thought of Bon Jovi. Both slipped out of star consciousness and fell into repetitive-action and process construction and so went the rest of their morning until the moon went away and the sun came up over the lake blinding them both with sparkling, annoying eye-wrenching golden light. One poured coffee. The other took a dump. Both houses woke up fairly quickly thereafter and took over the rest of the remaining thought-strings so as to muck-up the very slight and extremely agitated magnetics that ran above, below and through all houses everywhere.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Alive in Well
"You have to find your happiness," she said.
"I'll tell you what I'm not going to do," I said.
The joke about the bills and our money is drenched in wine and I can't seem to find proof that dust is alive.
45 minutes go by and there's a ringing in my ears. It sounds like a hangover, but it's not quite as industrious.
Maybe it's a cartoon. Or a radio frequency tuned to the Rihanna-dog threshold. I like Rihanna. Her ass is amazing. I think her power forward hungry box lyrics sprinkled with disappointment and planes is where things are at right now. At least for festival affects. I hear her lighting is good, too.
An hour later and I'm reheating frozen baked goods for my kids.
Two hours later and I'm on a train heading to the center of a video game. I think it's Arachnoid. The one with the spinning knob. Not the ball gently rotating in the earth. The nubby knob turny thing. There is an actual name for it. I think it's called a turning knob or a control knob. Rihanna has her fingers on the pulse of the knob of the control of the world. Everyone is Beyoncé this and Beyoncé that; but Rihanna. Everyone knows that crazy bitch represents what is really right and wrong with this world. Beyoncé, Ye, Jay. They are the translators. Rihanna is the direct current. She is the oracle transmitter and receptor. Her behavior is appalling.
Four hours later there is a lunch meeting and the secondary hell ring of managers and coordinators scamper about waiting for the drippings and droppings like wounded rats. Their shifty eyes making emergency movements so I pull the fire alarm then one of them says, "Are you fucking crazy?"
I say, "You did this. You went for the last slice of pizza like 3 times and I couldn't tell if you were going to eat it or wire it up with staples and dirty paper clips and terrorize someone with it. How can I be sure who you are? I only know that you live where other people live. That doesn't make you not a terrorist." And the rest of the day goes like that except all in avoidance with people finding small projects to finish, now mad that they actually have to work, to avoid actual eye contact, to avoid having to pass through a small cube-way with each other. All of them instant messaging that I am a lunatic. Go fuck yourself. I just bought you 30 minutes of time outside of the building while they checked for smoke and reset the security fire safety system and remembered about the box of masks in the top drawer of the desk at the end of the top floor.
They say Boho Chic or press their caramel leather into your face like its tits and then say, "excuse me" and "pardon".
This is what happens while we wait for weed to be legal.
This is the last jigsaw blade in the sawzall section. The last husk of the last grain of the last rice.
There is no denying the design apex of Nike. If they were based in Phoenix this entire mothership would blast off into space on the tail of a great fire comet. So, I am thankful for whatever hippy logging community they are currently set up in. If I could still afford Nikes I would make believe they were just normal shoes. I would pretend they weren't stardust threaded with the elemental code for life gifted to us from the heavenly creators. I would pretend because the alternative would be to live in a constant state of bliss. That freaks everyone out. Especially with people living longer and working more and for less and with less thought and less pride and more ambition and less know-how. Except for the EDM crowd. They might be ok with bliss. I don't know because I don't know any of them.
Certain times of the day are set aside for these memories. It's called prayer time in the third world. In the second world, I think they solve this with siestas. But in the first world it is its own channel spinning oldies all the time. It's on frequency 11.32 humming around in the skull right above the stem back where the tops of the ears are. Then you get hungry right in the middle. Then your frontal lobe becomes a horn and plows through the rest of the work on the desk. Then you go home.
Your list includes:
Fix the roof
Figure out water pressure
Look for leaks in attic
Half inch molding for kitchen
Find the old magician cooking up the dust
Trap and kill the dust
Drink wine
Gary Memi
"I'll tell you what I'm not going to do," I said.
The joke about the bills and our money is drenched in wine and I can't seem to find proof that dust is alive.
45 minutes go by and there's a ringing in my ears. It sounds like a hangover, but it's not quite as industrious.
Maybe it's a cartoon. Or a radio frequency tuned to the Rihanna-dog threshold. I like Rihanna. Her ass is amazing. I think her power forward hungry box lyrics sprinkled with disappointment and planes is where things are at right now. At least for festival affects. I hear her lighting is good, too.
An hour later and I'm reheating frozen baked goods for my kids.
Two hours later and I'm on a train heading to the center of a video game. I think it's Arachnoid. The one with the spinning knob. Not the ball gently rotating in the earth. The nubby knob turny thing. There is an actual name for it. I think it's called a turning knob or a control knob. Rihanna has her fingers on the pulse of the knob of the control of the world. Everyone is Beyoncé this and Beyoncé that; but Rihanna. Everyone knows that crazy bitch represents what is really right and wrong with this world. Beyoncé, Ye, Jay. They are the translators. Rihanna is the direct current. She is the oracle transmitter and receptor. Her behavior is appalling.
Four hours later there is a lunch meeting and the secondary hell ring of managers and coordinators scamper about waiting for the drippings and droppings like wounded rats. Their shifty eyes making emergency movements so I pull the fire alarm then one of them says, "Are you fucking crazy?"
I say, "You did this. You went for the last slice of pizza like 3 times and I couldn't tell if you were going to eat it or wire it up with staples and dirty paper clips and terrorize someone with it. How can I be sure who you are? I only know that you live where other people live. That doesn't make you not a terrorist." And the rest of the day goes like that except all in avoidance with people finding small projects to finish, now mad that they actually have to work, to avoid actual eye contact, to avoid having to pass through a small cube-way with each other. All of them instant messaging that I am a lunatic. Go fuck yourself. I just bought you 30 minutes of time outside of the building while they checked for smoke and reset the security fire safety system and remembered about the box of masks in the top drawer of the desk at the end of the top floor.
They say Boho Chic or press their caramel leather into your face like its tits and then say, "excuse me" and "pardon".
This is what happens while we wait for weed to be legal.
This is the last jigsaw blade in the sawzall section. The last husk of the last grain of the last rice.
There is no denying the design apex of Nike. If they were based in Phoenix this entire mothership would blast off into space on the tail of a great fire comet. So, I am thankful for whatever hippy logging community they are currently set up in. If I could still afford Nikes I would make believe they were just normal shoes. I would pretend they weren't stardust threaded with the elemental code for life gifted to us from the heavenly creators. I would pretend because the alternative would be to live in a constant state of bliss. That freaks everyone out. Especially with people living longer and working more and for less and with less thought and less pride and more ambition and less know-how. Except for the EDM crowd. They might be ok with bliss. I don't know because I don't know any of them.
Certain times of the day are set aside for these memories. It's called prayer time in the third world. In the second world, I think they solve this with siestas. But in the first world it is its own channel spinning oldies all the time. It's on frequency 11.32 humming around in the skull right above the stem back where the tops of the ears are. Then you get hungry right in the middle. Then your frontal lobe becomes a horn and plows through the rest of the work on the desk. Then you go home.
Your list includes:
Fix the roof
Figure out water pressure
Look for leaks in attic
Half inch molding for kitchen
Find the old magician cooking up the dust
Trap and kill the dust
Drink wine
Gary Memi
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