Why do I tear up my grocery lists like they’re bank receipts?
Why have I never had a relationship last longer than a jar of capers?
Why does a slice of pale moon make me disappointed, like the world
is a fortune cookie with a blank slip of paper inside? Dipped in eel sauce?
And with a perforated edge that sliced my finger open?
If life were one of those photographs where half the image is underwater
and the other half is above, I’d be in the corner with a scuba mask
and dress shoes, waiting to jump in… sharks with party hats
and cigars circling underneath…
It’s raining outside. The summer rain creates a humid smell that is like sweat socks and cut grass. I sit out on the balcony, drinking by myself, and watch the cars and the people and the trash blow across a city pulsing with hunger and ache and silent alarm. Tongue out, catching the rain — I’m a human birdbath, meaningless words spilling out — waiting for my mouth to fill up, waiting for the worm to crawl out of my Tequila bottle.
I’m so bored today I’d be fine with an Earthquake destroying my building just for an excuse to go outside. I close my eyes and Godzilla is crushing the Hollywood sign with his foot. I open them and there’s a white spider descending
from silk onto my window sill… and I’m still here.
Friends come and go, teapots whistle, pineapples fall on heads… planes take off, lovers kiss, rabbits get their feet cut off.
And I’m still here.
Do you ever walk into a room and people you don’t know stop talking and, however impossible, you feel like they were talking about you? Like everybody out there knows your secrets? Like all the people you’ve never met were waiting
with anticipation to hate you?
Yeah, me neither…