In this moment my body wants to evacuate my skin, rattle its bones, and, dancing, dream itself free. Or dreaming, dance itself free.
But my mind swings so wildly, and in this moment –a moment later– I feel like I am blindfolded, with a broken broomstick in my hands, flailing at a cement pinata.
Meanwhile, everything is huddled out there in the darkness, waiting for the truth. And terrified, of course, that it will be the awful truth.
It’s odd how the moon just disappears.
It’s not funny at all, really, how the night moves.
(Sits for a time, jangling his restless legs and staring numbly out the window at nothing in particular. Eventually is seized by a burst of what passes for inspiration at five o’clock in the morning.)
Allen’s appetite appeased, another appetizer appeared.
An apple almost appears arbitrary.
Aboard an aeroplane, accordianists amused an audience, almost all All-American acrobats and affirmative action adherents.
Ask anyone about Arnold; all agree.
At an art affair, Ashleigh acquired an admirer –an artist, actually, and athletic.
Acquiring acres as an accomplishment? Alas, all across America.
Nice try, but I can’t take that idea [sic] any further.
One last dubious revelation before I shut down this third-rate carnival: the best fishing is when you recognize that you’re both the fisherman and the fish.
Right now I just feel fished for.
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