the bird

yesterday while driving i saw the bird - the bluebird of happiness - as it bounced off the windshield of a neighboring vehicle. the bird looked not so much happy as surprised. i thought the bird might still be alive, so i swerved to miss it. in my rear view i saw a car spin 360 degrees and come to a stop. since i thought it would provide more time to gawk at the wounded bird, i stopped and pretended to care about the young woman in the car. for such occasions i always keep long stemmed roses on ice in the trunk. as i approached the young lady, i produced the flowers from behind my back. to my surprise, she had something for me as well - the bird. she explained that she spun her car so she could catch the bird in her open rear window.

then something terrible happened, she bit the bird in half. when i asked her why she did that, she said that she only did what i wasn't man enough to do. i asked why the bird had to die and she told me not to be such a girl. then i realized that i was just making all this crap up and i was really very secure in my masculinity which is why i can write such things.

needless to say (but i will) there never was a bluebird of happiness, it was actually blue because it was a blue word, and it was a bird because you can't be heard from one car to another. of course, after having been severed the blue was forgotten, but everyone saw plenty of red.

i was rain

Like a droplet in a dream
falling so fast that it feels like floating or even flying
I try to recapture the weightlessness
by laying on the roof and staring at the stars
but I’m afraid to climb the ladder at night
so I stay right here on the ground
in fact, I crawl
but for fear that someone might roll me over
I lay down
face down
with my
eyes closed
maybe I should
dig a hole

individuality overdose

Stan was like every other boy his age in that he wanted to be just like everybody else but still retain a vague sense of individuality. In all other ways he was totally different from other boys his age. And if you say that the other boys are also boys, then I'll remind you 1) you are talking to a story that has already been written, you won't convince the story to change now 2) you are not allowing the story to unfold naturally like the petals of a flower, a soggy accordion, or the pages of a book.

So back to the story...

Stan was keen to be influenced by peer pressure but was hard pressed to find a peer that was forceful enough to influence him. He was the equivalent of an autistic savant who only understood his own need for social acceptance. His comprehension of his own isolation was so profound that people would come from miles around to see just how lonely he could be. One and all, they were impressed by Stan's stark portrayal of loneliness. Comments ranged from, "looking at Stan is like you're drowning in his own sorrow", to "staring at Stan was like being microwaved to death in a sensory deprivation iron maiden".

As the years wore on, many other attractions were added near and around the Stan exhibit. A slacker exhibit which blurred the lines of slack by its use of coma patients rather than actual slackers was a particular hit. Examples of displays that never quite caught on were such flops as, Dudes with Suds, Jocks with Zubaz, and Turd Flingers. The Turd Flingers debacle was a shock to the parents who arranged the showing. They assumed that since monkeys were so popular, humans with the same antics would be a boon. The reality was that most families weren't willing to pay great fees to see the same things that happen on a daily basis in their own homes.

A stark comprehension of a singular petrifying reality was still worth coughing up some serious bread. Anyone who knew anyone knew that they could never be as alone as Stan. Seeing him suffer in his chronic involuntary detachment remained a great comfort to many. The thousands of onlookers somehow intensified and focused his already obscene estrangement.

One day a particularly depressive dental school dropout decided to walk through the displays because he had a few minutes to spare before killing himself. When he got to the Stan exhibit he was shocked by what he saw. A single hand movement. Was that a wave? Again, there was another almost undetectable movement of a hand. ExPreDent waved back and saw what appeared to be a smile. Although ExPreDent had never visited the Stan exhibit before, he had heard about it and seen Stan on all the magazine covers. He knew this was Stan, but he was acting so different, and even though the communication was minimal, Stan was expressing himself more than ever before.

Having been there to see all of this, made ExPreDent change his mind. He climbed down the steep concrete wall using a piece of a sturdy vine to lower himself to Stan's level. He said to Stan, "Why of all people did you pick me to communicate with?" Stan replied, "Because I knew no one would believe you."

Stan and ExPre sat up all night talking and laughing about uninteresting thoughts they had throughout their lives but never felt like sharing with anyone else. At least that's what appears to have happened. Both Stan and ExPre were found dead the next morning lying in a pool of their own sarcasm. Shards of crystalized thoughts were found as far as 30 meters from the corpses, and the fragments seemed to make up complex hyperbolic allegoric palindromes written in some hybridized variant of pig latin, esperanto and calculus.

Without Stan the exhibits seemed pointless, because there was no longer a clear benchmark for isolation and sadness. The loneliest person in the world could be just about anybody.

Reminders:

Milk
Butter
Bread
Fantasy is for suckers,
reality is a pain that never goes away,
even in death.
Not that I'm a masochist or even a pessimist.
I'm a multitasking realist who needs...
Organic Heirloom Tomatoes
Feta Cheese
Kalamata Olives
Something I can Kill Myself With
Razor Sharp Fettuccini?

My Little Miracle

I have a little miracle, a life inside. I love my little miracle, it keeps me alive. If they took out my little miracle both lives would end. And I would say goodbye to myself and my brother, my tumor, my friend.