May 20, 2008

I'm Done With This (You're Greyer Than Pompeii).

I'm continually scraping around the garage for the broom, but all I can ever find is the blower. These pompous gusts lack my genuine attachment, like extra extremities I never meant to grow to begin with. If only revision served its purpose...if only that broom was in my hands at this very moment, carefully and deliberately...perhaps then I could be myself. I don't like this untrained animal that I have become lately. I'm nearing a catastrophe at every corner, with every word from your mouth. I'm fending off the electric blower more than I'd like these days. You're the same old storm that's promised nothing but sunshine for too many years, and this time it's too late. This time I forgot the umbrella. This time I convinced myself I didn't need an umbrella.

...And on to the monkey in the suit. He's chattering in the corner, and for some reason I'm still standing around throwing bananas at him. I'm imagining them as hand grenades, though. He's the only one who doesn't seem to realize the reality of his situation: the suit doesn't fit right, the legs are long, the crotch is wedged up his hind end, and he's greyer than an elephant. Everyone feels obligated to overlook the obvious, to keep a fresh bunch of bananas at all times beside them on their desks. I'll tell you one thing: when he screeches, you can tell he's the only one he's threatening. We're all crying inside; all laughing. We're all suddenly with our sons and daughters at their first softball game, and some idiot is running around threatening the coach. It's heartbreaking; it's intensely inaccurate.

...And on to your current disposition: you're one step away from the gates of hell, and the sulfuric burn reminds you of the uncompromising memory of the lentils in last night's stew. Good luck with the rest of forever.
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