Sunday, June 6, 2010

Red Blue

When their mind say. Say, can I have your mind? These were the things I was thiking. Thongs a twinling. There was a woman up in the apartment tower looking down at the aluminum sign and thinking where does this all come from. I walked passed her and wondered aloud, why do the thoughts keep thinking? Then, later in the room a small, aluminum robot ran across the floor and I turned to my wife and mentioned that I needed another drink. And she replied What kind of drink? This sent me into weird place. I really didn't know what I wanted to drink and this really concerned me. I am 45 years of age and I should know what I want by now. But I didn't. I could only look at my wife and make weird facial gestures that were supposed to convey confusion, but instead conveyed some weird need to eat brains. Because my wife ran out of the room screaming. Then I started to feel the need to eat brains. But, because of my dyslexia I determined that I needed to eat Brians. And then I realized I knew no one named Brian, and the thought of going outsided to cannabalize neighbors was abhorrent - I decided to turn on the TV. But then these news broadcasts came on with all their talking and debating and I grew more despondent and then I started thinking about where my wife might be. And then I thought about where she wouldn't be. This was much easier. I had her nailed down to the basement doing laudry. She's so predictable. There's things I can't say, here in this suit, in the 1970s, and still forgetting to take my hat off and hang it on the doorknob. There's this houseplant outside that scares me. It literally scares the living fuck out of me. I see it every day when I come home and I think """""""""IS THIS SOMETHING STALIN PUT UP TO DISCOURAGE ME FROM WASHING MY CAR"""""" And then I remember it's Breshnev, or whoever, and then I wake up and think I'm retarded for worrying so much about my car. And then, where was I? I was speaking about my failed marriage and Russian influence on the plantlife. The fern has got to go. I mean.....that's all I'm trying to say here. The fern has got to go. THE FERN HAS GOT TO FUCKING GO! What else? Welllllllllllllllllll....hte.....these somethings that haunt me at night. They are little, small gnomes that carry signs and request my fear - they make noises. But that's not all, they are also witches and demons and they. UH UH UH UH UH U*H U*HHHHHHHH<>!!!! See what I'm saying? Later they sandbagged the place and hung dead bodies on the buildings to make believe we had all killed ourselves. It made sense and it worked and the gang of desert pirates never touched the town. Go down, go down, go down. This had better be good. The wife walks in and has this crazy look in her eye and I'm thumbing my pipe and wondering when I started smoking a pipe. And then she begins beating me over my head with a rolling pin and then it all starts making sense. The bruising. The beat all. Fall like a fat, velvet sponge onto the floor. And then the crying starts and it's coming from me. Life of flannel. This dead moose on the wall, this door knob made or silk and brandy. I'm half the man I was two minutes ago, and that's some pressure! I could take math tests and join a college. Do you join it? I have money in the bank. This pressure on my head. This woman in the kitchen makes believe she's my wife and offers me milk. And this is so depressing to me. At work I pretend I'm in prison. So I have some excuse for doing this to myself. They want to retire me. I don't blame them.

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