Why You Feel the Way You Do
You go out in the morning for coffee and when you come back
home you’re twenty-five years older than when you left. No one can explain this
common phenomenon to your satisfaction.
* * *
When you walk into an empty room tell me that the furniture
doesn’t look smug, as if it had been talking about you while you were out of
earshot, and none too kindly either. Go ahead. Get up and walk
into another room right now and see for yourself, if you
haven't already noticed. I'll wait. I've got nothing better to do.
* * *
I captured this sentence and watched it beat its Technicolor
wings against the glass of an old mayonnaise jar until it was ragged and
colorless and meant nothing anymore. Now I give it to you. You can give it to
someone else if you like. I don’t give a damn what you do with it.
* * *
Since the beginning of time, old women have been
sitting on porches painfully knitting with the knobby, arthritic fingers
of has-been prizefighters a blanket large enough to smother the whole
earth but they never quite finish and that is why you and everyone you meet
look a little out of breath, a little blue.
* * *
Do you remember that cold gray morning standing in front of
the firing squad? How they took aim and fired shot after shot, always wide of
the mark, until, disgusted, you took up an extra rifle and shot yourself
through the heart to show them how it was done? Well, I do. I was there,
standing blindfolded, right beside you. And, man, you were fucking magnificent.
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