Thursday, October 25, 2012

mdccxlvii

Do you ever prose?

Or that’s what I thought he said while I
unscrewed the lightbulb that only one
manufacturer provides.  Later, I ran into
Todd in a hurry.  And wondered if he has
social anxiety, too.  Maybe times seem so
different because communication is mini-
mized surrealism.  Only five years ago I’d
receive daily treatises via email while today
we argue via text messages.  These are almost
the only words I ever delete.  I also have some
hair.  Most cameras disagree.  Do I mind?

As for musical taste, I’m beginning to lose
friends.  My family is not so very big, and
we are losing staff at a steady rate.  One,
two, three, and so forth.  But I’ve noticed
longer conversations.  Verbal, I mean.

I haven’t read a novel in two or three years.
I picked one up at the San Jose Airport a
couple of weeks ago, awaiting an important
arrival.  To be honest, I was just along for
the ride or hovering a bit too much or the
bastion of moral support.  I read two or
three pages of it and, when I finally got
home, promptly tucked it in between
a couple of dust-covered golden oldies.
The bookshelf in the kitchen has been
that kind of hiding place for over
eight years now.  I read you, man,
but I’ve a fertile fantasy world
up in here already.  And time
is money, you know?