Easy Funeral I thought you were dead. You told me right to my face. You demanded we have a funeral. No, blacker suits. Have it outside. No, no, you are doing it all wrong. You are acting like someone died! And we threw your body into that hole, cried, and got ice cream after. You were still smiling when we left you. So you want to change your mind now? Did the worms and maggots begin to bother you? Did you need a break, to bring a space heater down with you? No, I’m busy this week. And the next. And the good ice cream place got shut down.
Scary Story Sometimes in the dark I can see you staring at me. You have stolen my desk lamp for your leg. My coat is now your glistening maw. Was it not enough taking things from me when you were alive? Even now when you can’t say anything anymore. I can feel your eyes looming. I don’t want to admit to needing a night light.
The Tower People pray that the tower has a top. Eventually, the shingles will be placed, and the whole thing can be torn down again, and a nice pleasant field can grow over in its place. But this is folly. The tower will not have a top. Because you can imagine it going on forever, building to infinity even as it uses the bones and flesh of the workers. It eventually builds all by itself. It leaves behind the people that were supposed to be inside it. Miles and miles of empty rooms, golden and diamond encrusted showers and bedsheets that even the spiders are not allowed to live on. And building becomes more and more a part of life. You build it when you eat. You build it when you sleep. You build it in your mind. And above all, despite all complaints, despite all pointed letters and talks with committees who make theory on how to stop the tower from being built. They still build the tower. How tragic.
Machine. The machine can only exist in opposition. A division between something it is and something it is not. That is how it derives its fuel. Without it, it merely exists in perfect stillness. It must have something to resist in order to animate. The thing loves to hate. It hates to love? A loud bang. Another X on a chalkboard.
Nonsense Man It happens out of nowhere. To be kissed by nonsense man. It begins to seem like a joke. You realize how funny it is. Door handles. Brooms. Electric heaters. The do these things if you twist them pull them hug them. People are the same way. How did you do it again? Eventually, it all tumbles apart. Faces, jobs, houses. How did it go together again? You have a thing attached to your lower thing. You forget if a thing called a nose. Went with a thing called a wife. So you stand on a thing. With a thing on your thing. With two other things. What a day! What a great day!
Garbage Every day I wake up. And the world is filled up with just a little bit more garbage. It should stop surprising me. Fade into the background. A piece of it here, a piece of it there. But every now and then instinctively. I reach out to something I remembered. And I just find a little tuft of garbage. And that’s just life. Just one less thing. It closes in. Maybe one day I’ll be the garbage. If I am not already. In my veins, replacing my bones. Crunching as I reflexively try to walk. And in the end. My head will be replaced with garbage. With all the memories filled with garbage too. And I will, regrettably, be happy then.
That One Day at Work. It was supposed to be an ordinary day. The kind of routine that sinks heavily over you blanketing. Perfected. Use the fork. Pick up the bin. Cart it around. Lower the bin. And then I captured lightning. A hissing. The lightning was angry. Two beady eyes, a striped tail. When I peered down into the void it tried to steal from. I could see an explosion about to go off. Destroying all that would hurt it. The lightning was afraid. You had to be careful, to appease the lightning. A small board, to clear it’s parting. The one moses used to leave the ark. And you must get as far away from lightning when it finally moves. And then it was over. Back to work. I looked up at the sky. Purple and gold. Huh, didn’t notice that.
Bananas They drive me. They call me. They make me go. A teasing, sickly green. You will have to wait. A vibrant, unsettling yellow. Are you not in the mood? Spots. Never enough, for certain. But always too many. Are you sure? Are you sure? Brown. Upsetting. It all tumbles into a black void. I can’t wait for you to do this again. They drive me. They call me. They make me go.
Comedy Club.
The king throws off his Crown of Laughs.
Because what is comedy anymore? Is it mockery of the jester, to reduce his struggles and dreams to gags and quips. He slams into the ground with a crack.
Laugh Track.
The king throws off his Crown of Laughs, for is he supposed to mock power, when he has become power itself? A century ago, he jeered and joked at the emperor with no Clothes, and now all he wears is his Crown.
The king throws off his Crown of Laughs, for his comedy only brings the cold. The townspeople laugh and they holler, but they do not smile. They feel no warmth, their cackles are bitter.
The king throws off his Crown of Laughs.
Because he does not tell jokes.
He wears them as skin.
The Light Box And so I am in front of you again. You bundle of wires, circuits and plastic. Why do you hate me? I didn’t expect anything big from you. Just a message to a friend. Just a question about the weather. You scream at me. At least let me understand the words. Now what? How do you want me to respond? Scream at you? Berate you? Appease you? Are you now my new god? Do I offer up prayers in your name? You steal my time from me. You cold unfeeling heartless thing. I understand. It was never meant to be. I have to cut my losses. I shall seal away my heart, never to- Oh, and now you work!