The Skinny, the Poop
Here’s the skinny, here’s the poop, a microcosm of the Dilly Dally, spread in disarray on your kitchen table while you sleep, basking in moonlight under the gaze of a digital wall clock. A cornucopia of wrong answers, your life in a nutshell. And still when the alarm sounds you jump out of bed, touch your toes, say your prayers and brush your teeth, as if everything was on the up-and-up.
I’ve about had my fill–with monks and monkeyshines, peacocks and pheasants, the small rodents that dart through the juniper; with the wind-up toys of ambition, the sock full of laundromat quarters.
A hernia the size of a football, six Asian lovers and a cell phone–what’s my problem? Someone’s snapped off the aerial and side mirror on my car, that’s what, the seat belt’s broke and the driver’s side door won’t open. But I still get ten miles a gallon and have a loaf of stale bread in the cupboard.
I’ve got a picture album that goes back to childhood, and I’ve taken to cutting the faces off the old me and pasting them over the new, which can be taken two ways, depending on what you want out of life, depending on which way you’re heading. The old me is the new me and the new me the old, and that pretty much sums things up and cancels out the whole show (because of rain, because of death, low attendance)…
The time for questions is past. They’re out there in the dark shuffling the marquee letters like a jigsaw puzzle for the coming attraction.
I backflip out of orbit and tumble down like a snowflake.
