This morning’s creep watches the cat watch me. In my
imagination, of course, because all of my friends are
dead. Except the monkey who wonders if wearing this
shirt will offend any of the people whom I’ve chosen
to take to the dance tonight. Tonight’s dance is the
cryptic dance of the green-glitter saint. We can dirty
our senses by marching forward, into the fog, but we
can only dirty our senses a little bit. Is it never enough?
This is the day I begin looking for a job – no holds barred.
It’s never enough to just stare into a penguin’s eyes. One
luminous blink and what grows in the garden is but a sack
of potatoes. If we took a picture of ourselves next to the
potatoes we’d be frozen in time, for sure, but when the
last remaining inhabitants of earth board the starship to
humanity’s next residence, nothing will be frozen anymore.
And then where would we be, you and me? I hitch my
burlap skirt up enough to exhibit my knees as if
to emphasize this point. As if.
