Me Neither

I aaaammm not sure I waaaannnt to know the aaaannnswer why I wrote this like thiiiisss.


My Little Lady

Little Lady

Little lady

little lady

'lil lady

Man, that's a little lady.


Dear Grandma,

Don't cry for me anymore. I have collected enough tears to finish working on our masterpiece. Forty-five Ziplock bags later, and here we are at the unveiling of a life's work. A Book of Tears.

Keep me in your prayers,
in your thoughts and memories,
in your pocket and hair,
in your heart and guts,
forever and ever,
your grandson.


Opening Scene - Three-Inch Boy

The credits roll and spin. Names of people that are called someone else for as long as you will know them. Casy playing Benjamin. Eva playing Jordan. The list goes on and on, with extras at the end.

Click. Click. A camera snaps a few close-up photos from far away. Click. Zoom. Click. The person in the photo does not know they are modeling. The person in the photo will not know that this photo even exists.

The photo is printed out and tacked to a wall. One of hundreds. You would think this to be the beginning of a suspense thriller, but then you notice that the photos are tacked to the wall of an art gallery. Gallery 1058. It’s one of those galleries that uses the address as its name. It’s the same as the one on the next block. Gallery 1165.

The name of the art show is written in vinyl lettering on the front glass window. The letters stop the sun, and the words “Art is so competitive” shade the floor. The artists inside tread across them, forward to the wall, backwards to observe proper placement. The show is going to start soon. The artists look frantic. I hope that someone comes to the show that will recognize themselves in one of the photos. I want to see their reaction. Without this hope, the opening is going to be a flop. Just ordinary photos of forgotten people stuck to a gallery wall.

The doors open. It’s already crowded inside, which is weird since I did not see anyone go in yet. Either time skipped, or this is part of the show. Maybe that was a fake window? The camera pans and it looks like I can see out of it from inside. It looks how I would imagine.

Panning the room, I am anticipating which one is going to be the main character, or possibly the lead in. I am disappointed to follow the camera to one of the photos on the wall, zooming in slowly until it fits the frame. The crowd noises are turned off, and the picture goes silent. I am left to hear the buzzing of my refrigerator as the only soundtrack for this scene.

The picture is of a boy in a red coat. He is stuck in mid-swing on a swing set. I would expect the silence to fade into children’s screaming and chasing each other around a park. Then the wind in the trees, followed by the occasional bird or car. And just as the sounds take you into the mindset of the park where the boy is swinging, the photo suddenly plays, and you are watching the next scene. Possibly a flashback.

Instead, the camera is still. Focused on the photo on the gallery wall. Still silent. The boy in the photo is still stuck mid-swing. His feet are blurry. I can’t tell if he is moving up or down, or forward or backward. I’m not sure which direction you actually go on a swing. I think it could be both.

This has gone on long enough. I am tired of looking at this picture. It’s too quiet.

Just as I was about to pick up the remote and decide whether or not to fast-forward or stop, the sound returned and the kid fell from his swing. The crowd gasped and backed away. The boy lay on the floor just three inches long.

“He’s breathing!”
“Is it real?”
“It looks so real! Is it a projection?”
“How’d he do that?”
“What’s the name of the artist again?”
“He’s moving!”
“His eyes are opening!”

The artist screams, “Close the door! Don’t let him get out!” But the door is practically ripped off by a couple of middle-aged women who tripped on their heels and were pushed through it. One of them tore her dress on the hinge. The other got a bloody nose.

I laughed. The actors were really convincing. The combination of scared for their lives and scared of a three inch boy was flawless.


Dust Storm

I was buried with my eyes still open.
I was lowered into the earth
deep enough for it to rain dirt from above.
The drops filled my eyes
and I drowned.
Buried under a waterfall of dirt.

Living with RMS

How can I be too tired to read, but wired to write? My eyes are tired, but my fingers are still wide awake. Restless Mind Syndrome.

Will I be staying up until morning? The morning that starts when the rooster crows, not the morning that starts when the clock starts over. The rooster’s crow marks the second day. The day after the night. The clock’s click marks the second this day started and yesterday began. I haven’t heard a rooster in the morning in years though. Roosters are illegal in the city limits, unless you have a permit and permission from your neighbors. Neighbors hate roosters. That is why roosters live on farms, where farmers hate clocks and neighbors. Farmers and roosters are soul mates. They go together like neighborhoods and clocks.


Future Saturday

Friday night I had a vision of the future. The future on Saturday. Not the Saturday that is tomorrow, but the day after tomorrow instead of the day after today. I woke up after only being asleep for an hour. I heard cats screaming out back. I think they were fighting, but they could have caught the cat fever and gone screaming mad. I went outside to see which it was, and all I saw was a bundle of cat hair. It looked sticky, so it could have been a hairball. I think one of the cats could have screamed so much that they threw up the hair they had licked off themselves earlier that day. It still looked fresh. It was only covered in two flies.

Looking ahead, I saw a lady behind the fence. I could only see her eye peeking through the fence, but I knew it was a lady, because she had a Betty Davis eye. She screamed at me when I noticed her. She screamed so much that she threw up. Some of it splattered through the eye hole. I told her to leave me alone, even though she was only minding her own business. It was the only thing I could think to say. Leave me alone. I waited for a little bit, then I just turned and walked away. I went back inside and had a bowl of cereal, then I took a shower and went to the studio to think about what I should do with the rest of my day. I sat there for about ten minutes before I had to go pee.

My pee smelled funny. Sort of like Confunction-Junction right after all the kids have gone and left. Right after it turned five-o-clock and turned again into the time to close. My pee smelled like being open turning into being closed. It was a shock to my smelling system. Electrifying. I peed lightning bolts from the future. Tomorrow's lighting bolts flushed away today in my vision of the future Saturday that takes place in the day after tomorrow instead of the day after today.



Shhh. The longer I can whisper, the longer I have to figure out why I am whispering. I cannot shush you anyway. But I have every right to whisper, and you have every right to speak loud enough for someone other than me to hear. If I speak softer, will you lean in? Will you wait for me to write my thoughts down instead? It takes a little longer, but you can take it with you after I am done, or even leave it here for someone else to read instead.

Shhh. We say shhh when we are trying to get someone’s attention, while at the same time telling them to stop making noise. Shhh. Stop what you are doing and give me attention. Shhh. Now it's redundant. Shhh again and the shhheep wind up eaten by the wolf. There were three shhheep and one wolf. That was a really hungry wolf… or more likely a really gluttonous wolf. He puked while half-way though the second one, and then dipped the remaining shhheep in his special shhhauce. The third one actually stood there and waited her turn. She waited to be dipped in the shhhauce of her shhhisters and then chewed shhhowly into little bits. She stood there, knowing that she was shhhoon to be shhhwallowed.

Saying shhh means that no one will ever take your words shhheriously again. Your words will not be believable even if you can point out the real bits of shhheep in the puddles of special shhhauce.


Go Figure

Today is Sunday, February 22nd, 2009. Yesterday I found myself wondering what day it was. It's not that uncommon to lose track of the days, the weeks, the months, and end up getting lost in the present. But in that moment I must have also been thinking of how I was wanting to write more, and through the clashing of the two teams of thought I was able to tackle down the idea of starting out the day by writing what day it is each and every day... unless I don't feel like it that day and talk myself out of it.

Today is Sunday, February 22nd, 2009. I seem to have needed to write it down twice. Its a good mnemonic device.

Today is Sunday, February 22nd 2009. Third time's a charm. I have not yet started thinking about tomorrow. So far, it is still early enough that I can only think ahead into today. Tomorrow still seems a whole day away. Far enough, that when I say "Tomorrow I will eat mashed potatoes," the words echo across the hours of today. I wave at them as they leave my mouth. Maybe I will see them later. Maybe I will see them tomorrow, or the next day after that. Maybe I won't see them at all. Maybe I will find them broken into pieces. Maybe they will get attacked and I will turn a corner today and find them covered in blood and guts... mashed to bits. Maybe they met someone instead, and when I see them next, they will introduce me to their new word-friend and tell me about how they met and how happy they are together. Either way, something is going to happen today.


Maniacs in the coffee shop

Last night, I realized that I need to exercise my imagination more. So this morning, I decided to take my laptop to the coffee shop and write. There are quite a few people here with laptops already. No, actually, I never left my house, and am still in my pajamas. It’s too bad that my imagination only took me as far as a coffee shop. You see, I still have some exercising to do. It’s not that a coffee shop is a bad setting for something to happen, its just that I quickly returned to my home and the reality of myself sitting at home in my pajamas. So many things could have happened in that coffee shop this morning had I given myself the chance to stay. A person sitting near me could have been reading a book whose pages were just sheets of color. Her face glows red for a moment. She looks up and turns her head directly to me. I must have been staring. She turns the page and her face reflects a shade of green. She holds up the book to shield herself from my stare, offering up the book’s title, “Reading Color: Understanding Color Blindness.” I’m not sure why this gesture made me feel aggressive today. Instead of realizing that I had been looking at this girl long enough for her to feel uncomfortable, I wanted to pierce that book with my stare, shove my eyes right through those colored pages and stab them through the back of her head.

Deflected instead. My stare ricochets around the room, hitting an innocent bystander in the leg. Who wears legwarmers anymore? Apparently this guy. He’s waiting for his morning coffee, standing patiently by the counter next to the sugar looking like a maniac… a maniac on the floor. Waiting like he has never waited for his coffee before.