Thursday, February 19, 2009


Freely accepting the remnants of coldness that blow from a northern latitude. Days have been unusually clear up until this past one. I have the urge to remain awake at all times. The brain's active and not affording me snooze time. A long bike ride is calling me.
The dimple on the wall ... it must have been the sambuca/vodka shooters.

a mother rat had given birth to a small litter the week prior. There were tiny squeeks three nights in a row. M*A*S*H was on, Alan Alda was hatching some schtick to woo his secret admirer who'd sent him a love letter. It was past 2 AM and a sleep-deprived trance had set in. The TV began pushing itself away from me, it seemed tens of meters away. The image on the screen never fuzzed-out, my eyes focused on Hawkeye beginning to sound more and more like Groucho Marx. My eyes slowly move downwards, glazing over my stomach and chest. I saw little people mingling on a stretched out plain that was my gray shirt. They were feeling around my chest for a something, the glow of the TV illuminating their search.

My hands were now larger, vibrating gloves without motion. I couldn't see the ceiling. My perspective had now panned out, yet I looked at the screen and it was larger now. Jamie Farr was now on, clad in a sundress. His skin was tanned and oily. I marveled at his large schnoz. It matched his smile so well. His face filled up the screen without any problems. I couldn't tell what he was saying, but I knew when to laugh.

Hawkeye now had wine, waiting for his mystery admirer. Like a gray matchbox car bolting across the floor under the screen, the hypnotist snapped his fingers. Bolt up, stars etched onto my eyes. Walk two steps, see a tail. "WHAAAAA SHIT!" Like a hobbling hobo reaching for a machete, the small little league bat that was always in the same corner. The gray-tailed admirer was fast. It dodged a Nike, then the large textbook (was it Chemistry?) before flying under my legs. Straddling back and to the side, trying to wake up, hearing the laugh track in the background, the grayness now making its way under the desk. The computer was still on. You cannot escape through cyberspace.

I see this rodent cowering in a corner. It's young, without a mother. It cannot understand its fate. It is a foreigner, inferior. I wield power over it. Now i see the cardboard lid of a box. I take the bat and push the lid closer to the cowering grayness. It now is trying to climb up under the desk. I hesitate for a three seconds, before slamming the lid against the gray fur with the bat only one time. Rodent-cardboard-wood.

Skull. No movement. Remain squating, then fall on my knees, gradually slumping downwards and forwards towards the rodent. no laugh track, no cross-dressing, no admirer.

sambuca and luksusowa with one ice-cube x ~30. the dimpled-wall, that's lamenting the admirer. i hit it straight, open palm, wrist tilted 65ยบ left of the normal. Spackling is cheap.

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