Thursday, July 10, 2014

You had a name for me. I had a name for you. Always turned my head. Your memory was good, but you still remembered some moments as lasting longer than others. I wonder if I do it too.

Our lives were hands on a doorknob turning. Closing doors and final moments.

Where do they go, the people I don't dream of anymore?

8 percent battery life.

Tomorrow waits in queue, ticket in hand, carpet bag in the other. Fleeing the future.

A woman told me she was the last matriarch of the DeLeons. She said she was every blood type. She said the military took her spinal fluid and it is hidden in a vault. She said her body cured her cancer on its own after she refused treatment. She said she wasn't supposed to get excited because of her heart. She said "Ha ha" as two words and a question mark. She said she was going to turn Minnesota from Democrat to Republican by calling her family members there. She said I was wrong.

She told me that she was a descendant of Ghengis Kahn. I believe that is the second most probable thing she said to me.

The phone disconnected. I called her back. She answered by telling me again that she has blood types O-, U, and N. She asked me to look at the letters and tell her what they spelled. I didn't. The phone disconnected again. I did not call her back.

Monday, July 07, 2014

Difficult tasks.

Calvin and Hobbes books for the twins. Also threw in a Far Side. Gary Larsen is red in tooth and claw and funny bone.

The caterpillar on the toadstool smoking hookah.

Sunday, July 06, 2014

Slicing sheets for sleeping better.  When they tangle I have nightmares. Machine for bad sleep-breathers hisses gaps in mask and hose. I pretend it's space travel. 

Writing desk trapped in the corner with a window to look beyond. These nooks are vital for my vitals. Nooks could make up my whole home.

I did not wash the dogs today. I meant to but a storm was coming. Desert storms with orange dust paint rollers over everything. When they come it feels like the world is an old film.

I'll wash the dogs tomorrow.

Last night, in tangled sheets, I dreamt you were dead and I panicked and ran from nook to nook with armfuls of everything I meant to tell you. Where now could I keep them? There was no more room in the memories of you.  Sight and smell and taste of you and your murmers of possession. No room for what could have been. 

The bedsheets are freshly laundered. The dogs will jump and sleep on it while I am away at work.

I'll wash the dogs tomorrow.