Preludes

The winter evening settles down with smell of steaks in passageways six o'clock the burnt out ends of smoky days and now a gusty shower wraps the grimy scraps of withered leaves about your feet and newspapers from vacant lots the showers beat on broken blinds and chimney-pots and at the corner of the street a lonely cab-horse steams and stamps and then the lighting of the lamps.

The morning comes to consciousness of faint stale smells of beer from the sawdust-trampled street with all its muddy feet that press to early coffee-stands with the other masquerades that time resumes one thinks of all the hands that are raising dingy shades in a thousand furnished rooms.

You tossed a blanket from the bed you lay upon your back and waited you dozed and watched the night revealing the thousand sordid images of which your soul was constituted they flickered against the ceiling and when all the world came back and the light crept up between the shutters and you heard the sparrows in the gutters you had such a vision of the street and the street hardly understands sitting along the bed's edge where you curled the papers from your hair or clasped the yellow soles of feet in the palms of both soiled hands.

His soul stretched tight across the skies that fade behind the city block or trampled by insistent feet at four and five and six o'clock and short square fingers stuffing pipes and evening newspapers and eyes assured of certain certainties the conscience of a blackened street impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled around these images and cling the notion of some infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth and laugh the world resolve like ancient women gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Adieu

A fairytale

Once upon a time, there was a woman who had three daughters.
The first daughter asked her; ‘mother, why am I called Rose?’
The mother replied; ‘well dear, that is because when you were born, a rose fell on your head.’
The second daughter asked her; ‘mother, why am I called Violet?’
‘sweetheart, that is because when you were born, a violet fell on your head.’
The third daughter asked her; ‘wwwaaarrggjkkglfguh?’
‘SHUT UP REFRIGERATOR! BACK IN YOUR CAGE!’

Suddenly, at NASA

You know how you’ve been sending radio signals into space for decades hoping for a response from another planet? Well, this is it. Please stop spamming us. We beg of you to stop! It’s not you, it’s us. We’re just not that into you. We only read the signals because we get bored sometimes, but that doesn’t mean we should engage into an inter-planetary alliance. From now on we’re just going to ignore you, so it’s no use to keep sending us those da Vinci drawings and that Martin Luther King speech anymore. We know already! You had a dream, fine, let’s move on. I’m sure there are other aliens out there that would love your carbon-based company. Maybe you should look into the Circinus constellation, we hear they throw wicked cocktail parties. We hope we don’t offend you by saying this, but please do not invent space travel. All that talk about travelling faster than light is bullshit anyway, trust us. You will NEVER reach us. Don’t even try. We would hate to use force, but we’re a highly developed race. We have dead rays. We will obliterate you. We admit, kittens are hilarious and True Blood is a pretty raunchy series, but we’re just not looking for something new. This is our first and final message to Earth, please have a nice, lonely existence until your sun blows up.

PS; those alien abductions are totally not us. Not to snitch on anyone, but where do you think they get the staff for those cocktail parties we told you about? Think about it…

Toast

…so I was in the kitchen, standing in front of the toaster and…
Were you making toast?
What?
When you were in the kitchen, standing in front of the toaster, were you making toast?
So, I was standing there and I thought to myself; “what am I doing?”
Making toast?
“What is my life leading to, why do I get up every morning?”
To make toast.
Exactly. Wait, what? No, I’m telling you I had an existential breakdown.
In the kitchen.
Yes.
In front of the toaster.
Yes.
While making toast.
So I went to the bathroom, I only had fifteen minutes left to shower and get dressed…
Where were you going?
Work.
So, there’s your answer. Why do you get up every morning? To go to work.
But is that it? Work?
Well, work gives you money. Money gives you happiness. I really don’t see what the problem is here.
It’s just all so pointless.
Next time you’re in the kitchen, standing in front of the toaster, you better make some goddamn toast.
So utterly pointless.

I feel like