he watches the rain like
it's alive
but he feels less alive himself
behind him
the house turns dark
its last light going off
don't turn back
don't look back
keep going ahead
and maybe another house
and another wife
will open up before you
or maybe there'll be another
war coming
and the nation will need
your service
again
this time the fear shall be
less intense
The first time
someone points
a gun at you
you're terrified
the second time's the same
third
forth
and so on
but eventually there comes
a time when you
run out of people
to point guns at you
fifth
twelfth
forty-third
and none of them make you
feel like her eyes
watching from the window
behind the curtains
and no pulling of the trigger
and no bang
is like her voice screaming
at the kid to go away, to not look
"A stranger! That's what the
man outside is. And I'm calling
the police if he keeps staring like that.
DON'T!
you dare look at him. Go to
your room. Now."
What's a man when all
the wars are over?
A squirt gun against the sun.
His good hand, the one with
whole and working fingers
reached into an inner pocket
of his uniform, found
nothing.
He walked on
And it rained on
And there were no more wars
you ever just sit or lay on your bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder if you’ve ever eaten meat from an animal that was the offspring of another animal you’ve eaten?
I’ve once read an article about the food industry’s secret glue that can paste together the meat belonging from many animals and makes it look like it’s from a single one
thus you could eat beef thinking that it’s from a cow when in fact it’s from nine different cows of nine different ages and breeds
a friend of mine declared herself vegan after she sliced a steak and found gray slimy puss oozing from it. The blade struck a cyst
“I’m a vegan forever from now on!” she screamed
And I said, “I’m a writer.”
“What?” she said. “What’s that have to do with what I said?”
“I’m a writer,” I repeated. “Meaning I have to compare everything to writing. Your discovery of the cyst inside the steak is akin to reading a really nice book only to reach the most disturbing scene you’ve stumbled upon in a long while and be taken by surprise and change your opinion about the whole book. There are some books like that. Doesn’t mean they all are though. And unlike a meat eater, I like to believe a writer can tell the difference between a book written by a single person and a collaborative project.”
“Boy, you’re scaring me.”
“Can I have that steak?” I said.
“Wah? You… don’t mean to eat it, do you?”
“Nah, my cousin has a dog who surely won’t mind the cyst.”
she gave me the steak and she didn’t ask (I only wanted her to), but the writer equivalent of this situation would be to recognize when a story fails real bad and instead of stubbornly striving to submit to agents you just give it away for free, publish online, maybe even under a pseudonym
Anyway the dog loved that steak.
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when nothing happens, nothing happens and tonight nothing happened. He rolled over and turned his back to her There was a long silence She took her phone and accessed the surveillance camera installed in her parents' bedroom Nothing happened there either. They were just sleeping It was 01:32 AM Finally, he said, “Hey, have I told you that one story from back in the day when I used to live on the streets? About me stealing a sex doll from a shop?” “No,” she said. “I mean, you probably did, but I was too drunk to remember.” “Alright. So, wanna hear it again?” She put her phone away and turned to him and hugged him from the back and told him to go on She fell asleep before he got to the good part but that was alright it left something to talk about for the morrow or the next…
they were kissing and playfully biting each other like teenagers in love as they walked up the stairs to the bedroom Once inside she made him sit on the bed and turned around to a desk in the corner. Opened the drawer “This,” she said, “was my father's study. He was a writer. And after his death I insisted that this become my room.” From the drawer she pulled out a silver revolver. Showed it to him. “This, he put against the roof of his mouth and fired. I was in my room, which is next door, when it happened. And, as I've told you before, I was playing with myself. Hard. And... it all ended with a bang. A big one. Ever since then, I've been unable to forget the man. How could I when it was him I was thinking about even before? Now, I always sleep in…
All he’s got on him besides his clothes and the bike is a thermos filled with coffee he got from the vending machine at the mall,
coffee bought with money earned from a day’s work of standing by the traffic lights at the intersection, waiting for them to turn red and offering to wash someone’s windshield.
Once on top of the hill he leaves the bike at the base of the water tower and climbs the cold iron ladder.
There’s no one to stop him at this time.
He sits down cross-legged
opens the thermos and pours the coffee into the cup part
“You can’t put a leash on art!” she cried. “The moment you do so it turns from a majestic lion into a grumpy house cat. Tell me, would you rather see grumpy house cats or majestic lions when you go out exploring?”
“Do I really have to answer that?” He said. “Look, I’ve had just enough of your shitty analogies. I’m really starting to think the people at the gallery were right.”
Those words delivered quite the hot stab into her artistic heart.
As an artist she was already quite famous for being rejected at the free gallery for presenting a poem about climate change written on a large, thick cardboard.
Nothing wrong so far, but the letters in the poem were formed with living earthworms and maggots and centipedes and small insects glued to the cardboard.
This morning as she appeared at the foot of his bed, in the light of the covered window, she sucked at her lips and said, “Ah, to spend one's life ever thinking about the girl one thinks one's not good enough for. Pathetic. I so pity the loser who lives life so. You know why?” In response he sighed and turned around and dragged the blanket over his head he was used to breathing the carbon dioxide from underneath the covers rather than fresh air from above But she would not go away this time. Small hands on sharp hips, she said, “What would you do if you found out that the girl you're so obsessed with... is secretly twice as obsessed with you as you are with her? What would you do, eh? If I told you that she's praying night and day to known and unknown gods, begging…
Daydreaming as a profession 