He had a big belly but he wasn't a fat man he wished he was a fat man
his daughter was four and she told him that he looked like a turtle born on the wrong side of its shell
and mother laughed. He didn't.
Surely he would have if the swelling wasn't a terminal disease a type of cancer of the stomach and guts whose name he struggled very hard to forget but the regular visits to the doctor kept reminding him
his wife kept laughing she said that laughing is the key the best healing Laughter and love lots and lots of love Love
but the other night when he tucked the little girl in bed and kissed her forehead and said "I love you." she poked her tongue at him and said "I don't! You ugly and weird. I love mommy and puppy Bran. Good night." And she put her head on the pillow and closed her eyes.
It was I who went to the shelter and brought puppy Bran home, he though as he closed the door, tears blurring his vision He didn't go into the bedroom where his wife was probably asleep
he went into the bathroom vomited washed his face rinsed his mouth went into the kitchen and grabbed the leash went outside and took puppy Bran for a walk
the moon lighted their path and the shadow of his big, swollen belly covered all of puppy Bran
What do you want to become when you grow up? was their most asked question
And silence was my most given answer
Might as well ask How do you wanna die?
I didn’t. I didn’t wanna grow up
but God, nature, the universe put me through it anyway
And I told God, nature, the universe that I would give up all the possibilities for my future, all the things that I could become if only God, nature, the universe would answer me this one question:
WHY DO I HAVE TO GROW UP IN THE FIRST PLACE?
And a deal has been made and God, nature, the universe said: WHY, IT’S QUITE SIMPLE. YOU HAVE TO GROW UP BECAUSE YOUR GUARDIANS ARE GROWING OLD. AND YOU WOULDN’T WANNA BE YOUNG IN A WORLD WHERE NO ONE TAKES CARE OF YOU, WOULD YOU?
God, nature, the universe was right And I said it was right and the children in the streets and the sewers and the laboring camps and the foster homes agreed with me
We have to grow up
And because of the deal I struck with God, nature, the universe I am now unable to become any of the things I could’ve become
I can only imagine those things and write about them
the law forbids him to walk the streets with the label of that bottle exposed but he does anyway
and there’s no one to care enough to report him
he’s just another drunkard getting his fix
also homeless he wears baggy jeans with lots of unruly strings around the hems and the belt a few holes at the knees a hole in the shirt dirt, sweat, something that looks like blood splotches, something that’s probably just mustard
just another drunkard getting his fix
but they don’t know him for an artist
in the breast pocket of his shirt he holds two long yellow pencils and he uses them to make music for the crows in the park and for the pigeons, though the pigeons are less impressed by his performance
he empties the bottle and finds a park bench and pulls out the long yellow pencils and starts drumming into the wood of the back rest and the crows gather round to listen and sometimes the dogs join as well and sometimes the snails after the rain but never the people
Daydreaming as a profession 