limp doll

this bright white box is like a question at the dinner table directed suddenly at you, your mouth is full of broccoli, and your table mates aren't related to you -- in fact you've just met, and you want them to like you.

writing about writing. off limits. grasping for the politically correct, throwing it out, for the birds. crumpled up answers, capping the impulse to make an unrecognizable sound and slide like a limp doll to the floor, writhe about, and eventually be excused. instead, i'll maintain composure, even if if it is if it is if it is ordinary.

lamplight. hot metal cage holds flammable bulb -- restrains it from getting any ideas, from aspirations to swallow up the entire room with its self-important glow. shake shake shake, wake, shake shake shake. we are laughing, just breaking up the waves.

turn it over, warm hay in the sand, perfect day for baking bricks. forgot that bag on the train, sent it to berlin with a note to please return. while we waited, i tried my first wienerschnitzel, and eavesdropped on an accented conversation that twisted my imagination like a plastic top from a happy meal. happy red plastic in a plastic bag, whirling wildly, what could it all mean?

then we went back to the train station...how robbed had i become? absentminded travelers, yes, we have you covered. come to our dark bunker, it doesn't even smell the way you'd expect it to. no food, no beverage, nothing to indicate the omnipresent switchboard conductors and shiny button pushers weaned from the benefits of sunlight.

we all start out speaking nonsense. we tack words together idiotically, but when you're small, toothless and bald, it's cute. so starting out, learning how (again) it is much the same. we abuse chopsticks on accident, stabbing the meat in frustration. we stack books to reach glass collectibles on high shelves, we tip toe on linoleum to swig ant killer undiscovered, we smash weenies with piggy fists and toss them to the floor -- someone is there to clean it up later. we fall asleep face down in our spaghetti...our logic is simple: i'm tired. i sleep.

dipping into memory before memory pushed record...we got away with so much more. we were small -- unpoliced -- short enough to weave through crowds unrestrained, stomp on toes, pilfer candy, and be perfectly inadequate. whatever we produced was great, perfect, we got stickers. we used to fib when convenient, truth tell when it was inappropriate, and wonder if the moon was a girl or a boy. we used to decorate our hair with chewing gum, run when we were supposed to walk, and eat fat boys by the box.

then our bodies got bigger, and our brains outgrew their bloomers.

speedball rabbit

alternative methods for keeping track of time --

time is not linear, matter is not solid, humans are fabricated with the same dust that makes up the stars. instead of traveling on a fixed rail like the speedball rabbit at the races, time is more like a rock tumbler -- perfect for those just getting started. dilating, making room for more subjects, time sprinkles out its contents--spilling guts like a mexican party favor and exploding when enough force is applied.

the earth spins faster now. i write -- impulsively -- 10 when we're only in 8. I forecast 12 thinking of 3. at times the only indication of progress is decay, a shock to senses and a warning bell as we linger in the hallway, pasting pictures of hoped-fors on the rusted insides of lockers. time has passed, more quickly than your mind can travel, convinced we are invincible. hoped-fors are buried under daffodils.

internet passwords and the evolution of such phrases, numbers, and memorized fields, can be a small-hand ticking dutifully around a numerical pie. edging closer to the eleventh hour, the large hand points to what was once anticipated and so quickly became a yellowed program tucked in a dusty chest.