Sunday, April 13, 2008

Mental Fleas and Suburban Eyewash

Words are the sutures
with which I tie bind sew myself
back together with a million
little X's of irony

My organs can no longer contain me.

I cannot find
I am searching for
in need of durable suture

The sound of the dog's breath on a continuous loop
Recorded on material that is both indestructable and immaterial
The sounds carry palpable images and the smell of hot unwashed breath

the man's breath exudes a radical understanding of reality.
his teeth are tiny computer screens.
i am watching a documentary on the revolutionary power of hair follicles.
the intrigue burns my tongue and gives pause to the plaster children behind my corneas.
or was it paws?
whatever it gave them, my children have burst from my aperture.

The battle (for what and against whom no one remembers) has moved into the living room.
I am going to save my family.
I am calling the handyman.
We will unify and entertain ourselves with standing over him as he works.
We will question his decisions and offer advice with stern voices and knowing, disapproving tones we reserve for people who are not our children.
We will discuss our victimization at the hands of the handyman, who wants only to take advantage of us.
Then we will not pay the handyman.
We will say the work does not meet our quality standards.
We will choose which services we feel are important enough to pay for.
These will only be services we perform.
We will exchange money for one another's excrement and skin flakes and rave to our friends and competitors about the superb quality of our purchases.
We will produce and experience the feeling of catharsis and hold our heads high for at least one more week.
But the handymen are not answering their phones.
I do not understand.