by Tomorrow's Man
The last day of March feels like the last two courses before graduation;
The last day of April feels like Seattle ate America;
The last day of May feels like tequila sounds tasty again;
The last day of June feels like tanned skin smells;
The last day of July feels like the last drop of evaporated Antarctica;
The last day of August feels like being tied down and tickled by Lucifer;
The last day of September feels like a kiss goodbye to July;
The last day of October feels like you can see death breathing;
The last day of November feels like you know it is;
The last day of December feels exactly like the first day of January;
The last day of January feels like holidays transforming into nostalgia;
The last day of February feels like the coda of a symphony, with one pencil-scrawled indication above the measure: "da capo!"
Today a day I feel like temperature precipitate.
Today a day I feel like boneless marrow outdoors.
Today a day I feel like what the priest left behind.
Today a day I feel like the unbegun breath.
Today a day I feel like half of a wink.
Today a day I feel like pages of a novel torn vertically.
Today a day I feel unsung, and silent.
The best conversation I've had with a woman, ever:
Me: "You've always known me to be passive-agressive. But, you always take advantage of me when I'm passive, and then berate me when I'm agressive. That isn't fair."
Her: "Life isn't fair."
I gotta give it to her, she wins.
Each one of those forty-two degrees floating around in the sunshine outside is a goddamned liar.
The pipes in my neighborhood had clogged up with ice and sewage over the weekend, so they had to shut down the whole town for a couple of hours on Saturday, except for the Lutheran church on the edge of town.
So, we're driving to the church to poop, stuck in a long line of neighbors also gripping their sphincters (you could tell from the expressions on the faces who'd had perhaps some spicy chili the night before, or maybe some bad fish), and we get stuck just at the turn where the crew is working on cleaning the pipes.
Five burly men dressed in safety orange vests and thick, leather gloves to protect against the bitter cold wrestled and pried at the pipes beneath the street. Between them they grasped an enormous pipe cleaner, easily twenty-eight inches in diameter and several feet long; the part they held exposed from the obstructed pipe was four feet of bright furry white bended up toward the sky.
While we sat, clenching, they heaved forward as one, and something in the pipe gave. Two of the men went down, but it appeared the pipe had been cleared. A muffled applause arose from the gridlocked cars, and the workers waved.
Though happy to be turning left toward home to poop instead of right toward the church, I certainly did not need to see the dark brown, matted and glistening six or seven feet of filthy pipe cleaner they extracted.
I felt like a dirty, dirty boy with my full bowels, contributing to all that noisome goo.
Maybe I would poop in the lake.
If it wasn't so cold.
I went to a Rave on Saturday night with four escaped rats from a lab at UW-Madison. Damn, those rats can just go all night...though, you'd never think they were four months old; all the drugs, and they could pass for a year or more...sad, the addiction.
I vow that at least one thousand one times before I die I will laugh in the face of human evil.
Thank you, Nine Inch Nails, for a great show.
Today, the morning after, I feel like a million dollars.
Problem is, I feel like it in pennies.
To whomever it is trying to talk into my brain about something called style sheets or some such crazy talk - stop trying to break the device. It only goes so far before it returns to the silicon it belongs! In!
Yeah.