I forget it. I’ve even
forgotten that I forgot
it.
—John Ashbery
The haze of last night
throws a bottle at me.
But I’m not awake yet.
Nor does this awaken me.
Meanwhile in the sufficiently
steamy shower, awkward tiles
peel themselves off the putty
within the walls in order to create a
sudden tile-storm that begins to swirl
madly into a tile-tornado, or more of
a tile-cyclone. One of the tiles nicks
Harold with such speed that she
bleeds (Hal’s my pet goat; she
showers with me every morning
before we both mosey off to our
respective offices) before they all
come to a frozen attention, surround
us in a very Matrixy manner, then go
plunking one by one into their proper
(original) order back onto the wet-
puttied walls. None fall off after.
I mention to Harold that I have a
Band-aid in the kitchen, but she
gives me a look like Don’t mention it.
Harold with such speed that she
bleeds (Hal’s my pet goat; she
showers with me every morning
before we both mosey off to our
respective offices) before they all
come to a frozen attention, surround
us in a very Matrixy manner, then go
plunking one by one into their proper
(original) order back onto the wet-
puttied walls. None fall off after.
I mention to Harold that I have a
Band-aid in the kitchen, but she
gives me a look like Don’t mention it.
