Collapsing

Collapsing in a sea of grass
I lie beneath the braying sun
Which crushes me with brutal cheer
Until the grass & I are one.

Collapsing in a world of dew
I sit & watch the stars go by.
I would have climbed the highest tree
If just to hold the spinning sky.

Collapsing on a piece of toast
I spread myself, but much too thin
And fail to flavor any meal
The passersby are taking in.

I Write a Book - Chapter 3

Danka opened the door to find a world gone mad. Dolly was gone, the front steps were gone, the walk was gone, the street was gone. The world, in fact, was not gone mad. It was just gone. Danka fogged over like a mirror.

"Everything is gone," she noted cautiously. "But what is this in its place? And what is the place in which it could be said to be?"

Deep within the cauldrons of Danka's mind a primordial soup was roiling. Great quantities of hydrogen, methane, ammonia and carrots were bubbling in Danka's brain.

"And what am I that I can perceive nothing? Perhaps I am the one that has gone. Perhaps everything else is still here."

I Write a Book - Chapter 2

In Chapter 2 things begin to heat up. Molecules move faster. The air can hold more water. The melting of the polar ice caps accelerates.

Meanwhile, oblivious to all of this, Danka percolated in her armchair beside the window knitting a wallaby. The zoo wanted it done by Friday, and she was beastily behind. For the most part the work was coming along fine. But Danka wanted it perfect, and this was putting paste in her gearbox. She hadn't even downloaded the pattern for the tail yet, although she suspected it would all mash out fine in the end.

Just then she saw Dolly prigging up the walk. "Shit," she croaked mused philosophically. "A pretty end to any work today."

She put her knitting aside, and with a dry heave she stood up and made her way to the door, trying on a few grimaces in preparation.

"Ding Dong!" Dolly squirted as she reached the door. The bell was out of order, and this was a little joke of hers. But the bell had been fucked for years, and the joke had gone on so long that "Ding Dong" now sounded to Danka like a parody of a term of endearment.

At just the moment when Danka was throwing the bolt things began to heat up. Molecules moved faster. Clouds dissipated as the air was suddenly able to hold more water. And Danka was sure she could sense the melting of the polar ice caps accelerating. "A fine load of laundry, this," she foamed. "What next?"

(to be continued)

I Write a Book


Tonight's fortune cookie said, "You have a charming way with words and should write a book."

This is how the book begins. What sort of book is my book? A memoir? A novel? A work of criticism, whether informed or benighted?

Where does this beginning happen: At the time of my birth? At some pivotal event in the life of my fictional narrator? With some sort of thesis I set out to prove?

Stay tuned for Chapter 2...