I dreamt I had presence
I’m bold and plastered somewhere. On a milk carton or the restroom in a log cabin. I’m scared and soaking somewhere. In a romantic comedy or maybe at my brother’s funeral. I’m hot and sultry somewhere. In the bathtub, alone, humming. Or in my baby’s car on a september night, whispering sweet secrets on a mountain. I’m lonely and suicidal somewhere. In the ladies’ room in my own home. Sweating profusely where no one believed me. Cutting and spreading my guts like a slut and like a whore for the pleasure of the floor. Or in my orange bedroom in a hideous office chair overhearing my mother killing my father. MURDER. MURDER. MURDER. Drum, drum. It’s just my luck. Somewhere I am furious and SCREECHING! Here, I am! FURIOUS AND SCREECHING AND NOT A RAT’s ASS IS GIVEN FOR THE GRIEVING. OR THE DECEIVED. I need a looser lever. Release me, dear God from the appleseed. It chews on me today. It feeds on my skinny corpse. And nothing better sides. Nothing better ‘cide. That I’m a lore.
The banal sun, the hackneyed roots. A wise sky chiseled platitudinous. And all she wished for was a flower. But the hour was unwhimsy and plain. That only daughter, she. She wished again for a measly flower. Barefoot and twirling amongst the greens. She imagined a petal departure. Flowing from somehow within. An all encompassing, splash of flower bones. Flower blood and flower soul. “OW!” She stepped on a caterpillar with wool for skin. “Hey, little fella.” But he wouldn’t let her in. So the garden busted in an April shower, but she would not abandon the little caterpillar. She snuck him into her intimacy. She snuck him into her privacy. He resided in a shoebox beneath her bed. She fed him leaves she found from a different garden. For weeks. he cocooned and she was not afraid that he had made a little home for himself. She understood that he would have to come out eventually, but it was late in the afternoon. The garden, now repaired. A fountain now installed, a new path now realized. She ran barefoot up wooden steps, excited as a bee. To tell the little caterpillar who she named, Mr. Honey that she had for him a new home. His old home, really, but he was just a baby when it was his before. She slid on her carpet and static was she when she clenched Mr. Honey’s shoebox existence right out from under. But Mr. Honey’s home had split in two! “Oh no!” She lifted the head of his home and….and. “MOMMY!” No one had seen him enter. No one had seen him go. Her window had been open because springs are humid. She cried and wished for a flower. A flower. A flower. A flower. A flower. Obsessively, tirelessly. But, no petals had breath. No petals had homes. No one cries for petals when they vanish. She thought. So again, in the garden she became a spinning. Imagining that flower petals were exuding from out of her chest and breath. Somehow healing everything, perhaps reviving Mr. Honey. But now while she was spinning, she felt a tug n her dress. It overwhelmed her. It was a strange thing to be pulled in any one direction when making a circle. Dizzy, she lifted her dress and a small moth flew away gracefully. It was beautiful. It had two petals for wings. Little, dainty scarlet things. And black and white. A twinkle, the embodiment of a melody. But what else would that Honey be? Surely, not anything less.
“I wish we ran collaterally, but its like fucking disorienting how she zig zags. I’m just too, consistent. I depend on that kind of predictability. But then, she’s on this wavelength where anything goes. Jumping on the trampoline at four in the morning, fries soaked in mayonnaise, four buckets of coffee, and a fucking raccoon in the fucking kitchen with a fucking bow tie! I’m gonna shoot someone.”
“It sounds like she doesn’t understand boundaries or have any sense of self awareness. Or maybe she needs to be disciplined. That works for some women.”
“[smiling widely] But she’s not a woman, she’s not my girlfriend, she’s a monsoon.”
“Well, sometimes monsoons just need to told who’s in charge.”
“Yeah, oh yeah the boss of a monsoon, hmm. That’s tricky. God, maybe.”
“I think you need to be more assertive. Do you even want this to work out? Or has it gone too far? And how’s your sex life?”
“I love the girl to death, but the way she acts like, I can’t jack myself off to who she is in the kitchen. I want her to just be, reading. Yeah, reading on the sofa. Maybe a candle lit or something. And definitely keep her outfits the same cause they’re sexy. Then she has to eat food how I serve it. You know, Todd this is really doable. I think if I just have a stern talk with her and tell her she needs to stop being barbaric,”
“She has a thing for like, I mean she’s always been into butt sex. It’s rare, man. Just a blessing. I don’t know, though our sex life is incredible like don’t get me wrong, but the roles feel dull and we’re for the most part doing the same thing over and over again. Like there could be anyone beneath me. Oprah could be beneath me and it’d be just the same.”
“Weird she’s not fun in bed, you’d think,”
“I know. So what I do? Like I don’t know if I can pull it off. I have to fix everything about her.”
“It’s only her behavior. Maybe reward her for a fork and knife and punish her for the raccoon. Take whatever matters to her away, ground her, kill her family, no matter what you do though make it clear that if she doesn’t change, it’s over.”
“Alright, thanks man. Wish me luck.”
Daniel’s emotions are, extreme. They swing, almost competitively. Can happiness outrun temper today? Watch live on channel 400. He has a calendar and a watch and a leash for his calendar. We think that is all he has besides maybe parents. He has strange taste in food pairings. Apples with tortillas. Somehow. Somehow. We feel embarrassed to write it, it’s so-guck. A meal of his invention; mashed potatoes and pineapple chunks with salad on the side. Drenched in French Salad Dressing, because he’s taste blind. Perhaps his response to the common apple is ours to lemon and so on and so forth. Whatever the case, Daniel always twitches when asked about the weather. We suspect he’s afraid of the sun. We’ve made a sport of it. We like to ask him whether or not to wear a jacket when it’s eighty degrees out, but his eye will crinkle slightly and his mouth will droop. You would think he’d point out the strangeness of the question, but the question draws out the strangeness in him. Eventually he replies, shrugging. “I think what you’re wearing now is good.” We believe his name is italicized when he says it. It is because he always says, “Don’t call me Daniel!” He emphasizes parts of words, sentences and emotions. But we love Daniel. Daniel once had a pet rabbit named Louis. He only lived to five. We’ve compiled a series of explanations. Perhaps, Louis escaped. This one is obvious to anyone who’s ever interacted with Daniel. He’s just a walking shame, really. We suspect also that Louis may have hopped upon realizing he was a bunny and Daniel may not have understood this and insisted that the critter walk, or fly. This of course would be a tumultuously cruel demand for a bunny. Our third and most likely explanation for Louis’ short life is he was too shy to ever simply ask Daniel to, “fuck off!” Daniel’s sister died. No one ever talks about that. She died. There. We talked about it. It was a strange illness. She dealt with for the entirety of her life. Or perhaps, like Louis it was because she could not fly. Daniel has scaly skin, but only on the back of his neck. It’s always red and irritated and We wonder if it’s because he is allergic to the sun or showers aggressively with a loofa. We wonder a great deal about Our friend, Daniel. No one’s ever called him Dan. Even attempted it. What would happen if Daniel was no longer Daniel, but a Dan? Would his hair become less wheat-colored? Would he adopt new hobbies? Ones that don’t include outdated sitcom-watching or apparently (and this is new to Us) playing street hockey with boys half his age. They try to impress him because he’s the eldest of the tribe, but really anyone watching from even a foot away starts to reek of pity. We wish Daniel was not so, extreme. We wish Daniel was not so alone. We wish Daniel was not so crouched up on this mattress, hiding the truth. We wish Daniel was not afraid of heights and what they did to him. We wish Daniel would go to bed, headless. We wish Daniel would go to town, mouthless. We wish Daniel would quit whining. We wish Daniel had a reason. We wish Daniel has a reason. We wish Daniel had a reason.
Trophy, trophy, trophy. You are wind, My Bite. Because you cross and you zig zag. It is a shame you whistle right past ’em. On this stage, accepting the award for a title I once cooked. Shackled and famed. A tiny rice cake, that’s my mood. Fried. Rich in the salt. Gelded in Versailles. A gold twinkle, I stare down at the yellow coat. They want a speech now. The crowd of merely ankles. I say, “You earned this!” Only it wasn’t modest. It was vain. Talking to myself aloud proved a merry method. They all clapped, even the chimney. Even the roof. Such a wild crowd. And so easy to move.
Ever say yourself into and out of an emotion? Uphill, uphill, uphill, plateau, downhill, downhill, downhill. How’d I get here? I begun with a single solace. Now this feeling is frayed, forked and fearful. I will not settle for this! So uphill, uphill, uphill. A relief, a row, and readiness. Plateau, that loyal shade. Downhill, downhill, downhill. What is this shape? What is this color? It’s unlike what I started with. It is a compression. A belittling of an angular mind. It is invasive. It is not polite in its dress. It is not polite even in its honesty. It is all the way undesirable. And all the way invested. All the way down.
-A Lowly Message