stillfugue

Lunchtime in the city, in the park, with the angular and furry winds, holding tightly to my loose baggie with jelly goo-goo blobbing itself everywhere, regretting that I forgot my napkins, but here I go again, licking my hands like a fiend and not giving a shit about what people think about me licking like a dog licks a puncture wound.

Friday and streets are so empty, but I’m not stupid. I feel the dead crawling beneath me in the jungles, the tangles of sandy sewers. When the living leave the city to do the shit that they think makes their lives worthwhile, such as water skiing from the dock at the lake house or traveling up the road to hang out with old buddies to drink and perhaps get drunk, this is when the dead start to get serious and start to move about like a storm, more furiously active than all of the scurrying rats on which they dance.

And when the dead are buzzing about below, that is when I feel the roots of all of my diseases, perhaps not so alone because when the fear subsides, I rest my body and focus my eyes, moving them slowly across the page, feeling a rich chocolate silk overcome my brains, sparkled by the arrangement of all of the words, but still alone with all of those diseases and all of the unfair artistic yearnings, watching my sharp object of architectural genius steam into the end of the sky and wonder why its massive American flag never seems to move despite all of the stirrings and blasty blooms of the wind here on the ground just above the nasty hurricanes of the dead who rise and blow gassy fires which grow my diseases up like big hot air balloons.

I resolve to go back to work and not hate myself as much as the dead require.