Sunday, November 28, 2010

Part two or three

My cat is an idiot. "So seriously, what do you think?"
I am a very annoyed person, perpetually. Every favor that is asked of me is always the last straw. Somehow, even on a Saturday morning like this one, with cold sun sharply slipping in the cracks in the curtains much like I imagine a scalpel slips into and underneath skin, somehow even now, his innocent demand for some mental response in me was the fucking last straw. "Cat," I said like it was a confession, "I didn't listen to your poem. I heard a part of it and I liked that part, but I'm a little overwhelmed right now. Can we do this later?" My cat, who always looks sarcastic, somehow looked at me sarcastically, bitterly. I felt bad; but I was still annoyed, overwhelmed. For some reason on Saturday mornings, it always feels like the world is rushing across my brain like for some reason all the morning foot traffic in New York City was re-routed to cross the rickety rope bridge that starred in at least 2 Indiana Jones movies. I fell back asleep a little sad, hoping I would feel better when I woke up for the third time today. It was 3:00 PM.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Part one or two

"So what do you think?" My stupid cat asked eagerly, with his grating, needy voice, "Any thoughts?" I gave him thoughtless words, "I don't know, man. It was good. You're cruising. You've got a nice rhythm going." I actually thought it was completely incomprehensible. It meant as much to me as every other piece of verbose nonsense he would read out loud. His poetry sounded like it should mean something, but I could never make head or tail of what was going on. He needed something, "Maybe I'll read it again and see, you know, if it feels right." I was just sleepy. That thing was happening again, where I feel like I've passed out almost completely, every part of me  but my face and legs. I didn't want to do anything, but the veins in my legs were fast rapids, crashing through under my skin, itching. And the stupid world wouldn't stop requiring my face to talk. Brain asleep, face still going. Eyes open, but if you looked into them you might think I was dead. I was a rag-doll with the legs of a turrets patient. My cat was reading again. I heard him say "Am I dreamer or a dream, a character, small thing, flash of glass reflecting sunlight into the eye of the victim in a car crash " before I stopped taking account of what was happening outside my head.