Tuesday, June 11, 2013

experimental typing the morning after a bad night's sleep


Can I tell you a secret? If I ask you if I can tell you a secret, will you find time to listen to my secret? If my secret bores you, will you pretend it matters? If I cry while I tell you my secret, will you hand me a tissue? If I decide after I ask you if I can tell you my secret that I’d rather not tell you because my neighbor is playing bad ‘80s music again, will you hold it against me for withholding, or will you be relieved because my secrets are so dull? Do you love me for my secrets? Do you love that I have no secrets? My secret is multi-layered. The top layer involves weight, my billowing, burgeoning body. And we'll stop at this top layer, this layer where my body becomes a houseboat. 

My body is a houseboat.

My body is a heavy burgundy drape.

My body left its ball cap in the mall.

My body is a sub-zero, stainless steel freezer.

My body is duck down.

My body is Stevie Nicks’ voice.

My body is a ladle.

My body requires sifting.

My body isn’t a kettle.

My body is the Impressionist room of an art gallery.

My body is a jar of Mediterranean basil.

My body has bird shit on its back window.

My body isn’t a fallen bird’s nest.

My body’s ring tone is the sound of a key in a deadbolt.

My body is not a mechanical pencil.

The wood of my body splinters.

The plastic of my body melts to the car cushions because this body's heat smells of aging funnel cakes.

This body is not my body. This body is a paint-chipped garage.

This body is not a push reel mower

though it could be

it should be

it will be.

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