Sunday, May 15, 2011

Blank Post

There are kids in my living room, and an old man on the couch.  Near the drafty windows, the heaters pump out more noise than anything else.  We play the same Chopin every Sunday, and the notes do not feel bright anymore, though the repetition has allowed me to spot any one of the notes, in isolation, on their own, and I've used this skill at various cocktail parties to impress sundry hosts.  I'm drooling on myself, I notice, and then snap out of the daze and get up for hot wasabi and the flesh of cold sushi on my own tongue.  One day, I"ll wander into the mall, set myself up in a store front, and inject nitroglycerin into my veins, only to be thawed out and revitalized when women rule the world and every belief withers with age like the recharge on portable electronics.  We stare at them as if they make us live longer, as if we can escape fundamental truths that way--of boredom, of monotony, of callous behavioral ambiguity.  The electronic devices. 

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