he walks from the kitchen and promptly sits on the blue and white and almost wintery couch. daftly, he scoops beans into a coffee grinder for me as i sit here writing this. he has no idea, although some ideas may come from the raisin box. i would believe it, this sound he's making from the kitchen. maybe this will help. it will cure you. the plague will be gone. he opens the window. i wonder what exactly i'm planning on doing with this, and a syncopation manifests itself! the stripes on his shirt and the stripes from the window. i look up and he looks down. this creature doesn't seem to have a wish in the world but explores the oneiric with a decisive precision, like the scientist looking over his glasses and categorizing frogs for the sake of stillness of mind. somehow it doesn't bother me that he's addicted to the internet but i worry about his brain. back to it. the coffee is almost ready. the coffee is ready. he takes a manly sip. is this about white bread? is this about me? he asks me about rye bread. i tell him about the glycemic index and warn of the noxious nature of potatoes. texting is a thing to make us feel alone again and i watch from the corner of my eye. if you were wondering, he isn't gay for raisins.
what do i know about this man? what can i say? what is it to say? other than the right to throw bread out of the window i am given nothing, no room, no division of selves and know that everything has fallen silent. we sit in silence. what is there to tell?
No comments:
Post a Comment