Saturday, April 19, 2014

my favorite octopus story

I'm a little drunk I'll probably get drunker the night isn't done the night isn't done I want to be loud I yell through headphones and microphones no I will not quiet down

 Everything feels hard I don't mean emotionally I mean this couch (why am I on the couch?) this floor this rug beneath me these knots in my shoulders those lips the lines of the stairwell everything geometric you can't escape it you think I'm crazy

My parents buy me dinner followed by basil lime sorbet there are fresh basil leaves in it I taste the basil it is good I like basil I buy it fresh at the market from my favorite farmer her name is Mary but still I throw most of the sorbet away I am sorry, gods of recycling but really I am not a huge fan of sorbet even when there is fresh basil in it even when I like basil which I really do. That's why I ordered the kiddie scoop.

The twelve-year-old drummer pounded, pounded, the teenage guitarist singing not good not great but okay and what matters is that he was singing, asshole, don't judge a teenage guitarist until you have tried to sing-- anyway he was good he was great because he was twelve because he was playing but he wasn't as good as my dad, Dad please eat something more than that egg-and-cheese sandwich I love you there is still poetry in you and music, such rhythm coming out of you, these decades later remember when you were my best friend when we meditated on the family room rug then drove to your Big Band practice through the college creek splashing water up past the windows me with one hand out the window eating shredded flakes of coconut?

He boils eggs we will paint them we will paint them with colors swirling yellow and blue and pink and purple do you know how many colors we can make? the cat sits by my feet on the couch. I love couches love lying down on rugs on my stomach on my back big fat headphones on listening to music take me carry me away carry me home carry me anywhere I trust you to kill me 

How many tattoos have I imagined will I ever set ink to flesh? Okay I'll end the suspense my spirit animal is a heron this is the real fucking deal I see them every time my soul feels heavy they wade-soar-plunge their beaks into shallow waters balancing effervescent on floating logs in the lake lifting me up, up, up--

"Don't let anyone laugh you out of something you think may be true"*

and for how many years now, despite my busyness, my overwork, my heart stretched in infinite directions my climbing of mountains pounding of pavements and sweaty gym floors, still my something staying there with you with used record stores that rock that pond that creek that sandbox our bare feet in it that water fountain in the little green park

On another subject how did Kerouac die on another subject I say Listen bud let me set you straight I say make a flower euphemism. Is there anything more meaningful in this life than flowers. I mean come the fuck on, have you ever considered the lilies?

*Dr. Jane Goodall, April 18, 2014

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