Monday, January 18, 2010

Kanola Oyl (an aside from "Even Turnips Have Their Bad Days")

Sucking on this Everlasting Gobstopper of thought

Wishing I could spoon away the rain

While a deluge of wakefulness sops my ability to rest

Puddling cars water the sidewalks

Indifferent hoots like sudden foghorns that screech instead of moan

Openly omniscient about the not-knowing of things

My eyes like opaque clerestories

While all my nose does is blow

I skip bail and go right to the undying heart of misery

And then I yawn and fall back asleep

It is very unlike me to do such things

Seeing now your slow smile and hearing your faraway voice

Possibly plucking the acerola cherries from your eyes

I would not leave the roll toilet-paper-less

Or indulge in the mathematics of buttering toast

It is not this me that does such things

Perhaps a trouty specter has moved into the lake of my habits

Foreboding what spectacle of care I won’t chance a guess

Surely there will be people doing laundry

It is very unlikely that I will do such things

Tossed to the lonely shores of my shipwrecked dreams

For it’s just the devaluation of friendship that appears suddenly

Like an excess of superficiality masquerading as depth

Maybe at a stoplight

While you idle and breathe and stare at the bird shit on your windshield

And think about capital letters

It is very much me to be caught inside-out

Sleeveless and catnapping my way through the early morning

Deranged but drinking coffee

Throwing clothes hangers at the wall

And life’s just a popularity contest without votes

It is mostly not likely that I will change the channel of my regret

The stations here are just static and canned laughter

I wear out the tortured socks of my life to dance in the splendor of rain