A Visual Inventory

Look around and tell me what you see?

I see the usual things, the too-muchness. I see the fuzzed scrim of darkness falling, the green world receding beyond the window screens.

I see, everywhere I look, patterns and textures, sprawling across the upholstery of the furniture. The geometric chaos of the rug beneath me. I see the comfortable jumble of color and type aligned on the bookshelves.

I see a red-and-white checkered rocketship, three midgets, prosthetic eyeballs beneath a shimmering bell jar, and a fat, stainless steel clown with a bright glow settled on his belly like the moon resting on the surface of a lake.

I see Nancy and Sluggo out for a stroll beneath an old wooden sign that reads, in fading red block letters, “BOOKS.” I see a blind rabbit, a monkey wearing a fez, and the skeleton of a bat. I see three grinning donkeys conjured from a schizophrenic’s nightmare.

I see long-dead baseball players, baby bottles crammed with astronauts and entire families of little people, and a blonde go-go dancer trapped in a cage with a paralyzed, slate-gray bird. I see beetles, a skeleton riding a white horse, and an elf with a gaping hole where his stomach should be. He has swallowed a handful of keys.

I see a dancing mouse wearing bright trousers.

What do you hear?

I hear David Bowie, howling so loudly that he is rattling everything I see.

And how do you feel?

I feel hungry. I am counting on a bag of radishes to keep me alive.