 |
Yes, I’m going, but since you’re so kind and the cosmos remains unlisted,
things swooshing as they must, I’ll remind you we all suffer each other
like background radiation. Dime stores are now at least a dollar. Do I hear
five. Soon enough. I told you I’m going. And I can’t get a good shake, or
is that an even break, what even is an even break, whatever it is I am
completely broken up over it, to bits. Little bits of this and that that
accumulate into dumps and landfills, of course they don’t fill them with
land, which would be better, the bits are garbage, and in what sense is it
all garbage. Shopping certainly is perfunctory garbage. Like sneezing
could be perfunctory death. The way you feel sometimes alien to this
planet that, far as you know anyway, has indeed always been your own.
Peachy. But please, before I’m out of here, please no more metaphors made
of plush toys. And cancel my lavender lunch reading with repeat offender
marshmallows and the Pastel Teacup Xylophone Society. Neeners. Sorry,
that should’ve had a trigger warning. Sugar stench. Parting shot. Apply a
fluffy pink bandaid. Right between the lemons and the off-brand Dramamine
I realized there’s no such thing as an uninteresting number, except for 366,
because I couldn’t take one more day of a gooey year like this one. And that
makes me dizzy, hence the generics. Ugh. So, goodbye. But I do admit I
find it singularly satisfying somebody’s happy knowing there’s already
enough of everyone else to go around. There’s nothing here one could
mistake for clear moments of morning, and the afternoon is dead on arrival,
even the specious perfection of twilight presents only vulgar stubble. So, alright,
goodbye. At least the knowing is useful, useful and useless at the same time.
|
|
