Long John Solipsism

I never understand why things need doing. Why must clothes get dirty? Why can’t the body have its own wash cycle and spin? Or the house have a built-in tongue that licks it clean? Or dishes grow clean layers like skin its epidermis? Or grass a growth-imposing gene? Or dogs the sense to return home like pigeons?

I’m tired of waiting for something pleasurable to happen for me. But I don’t want to regress to my teenage years when a quick wank sufficed. I want something like a lovely warm animal to curl up in my heart and purr.

A faint chirrup of activity here at the office, but it’s mostly long grass, monarch caterpillars thick on the milkweed, and the hot, gold disc of the sun slouching.

Actually it’s raining again. The weather’s decided to put on its dowdy gray overcoat and if it flashes the sun it’s going to be obscene.

Here’s a snippet of a dialogue I overheard last night at my place:

“Snap that cap, hepcat.”

“You is smokin’ tonight, baby vamp.”

” It’s either take five for me or I wig out, man. I’m solid, but sometimes I’m a Joe below and then I’m a finger zinger.”

I’m mad daddy-o, mad as that boogie woogie that Yancy is layin’ down.”

“You idder wid me or you is widow me, character.”

” Bearcat, you is a freak lip.”


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