I saved a tiny bird today. She
rode on an improvised perch
until she found herself outside,
and then she flew away.

—-

I have been sick for ten or eleven days now. Today I made it as far as the southern-most exit in this town before I turned back to resume my sick-day routine. I am tired of being sick.

It is a struggle. You must be familiar with this: I want to go to work; I want to dig in my yard; I want to build things; I want to organize and clean.

For once, I want all of these things.

But I am sick.

Fuckers.

(I can’t be faux-literate all of the time.)

Close your eyes and picture two lanes of traffic: You’re in the fast lane going about seventy-five with everyone else. To your right the slow lane is empty, but a couple miles ahead there is a truck going about fifty and a couple miles behind there is a subaru legacy going about ninty-five.

You’ve been there, we’ve all been there.

As the subaru approaches the truck, he is going to expect to cut over into your lane right in front of you. You glance over: it is a douche-noz with a bluetooth ear piece. As you accelerate to keep him behind the truck, plans to create a right-firing pudding gun start to run through your head. Would a windshield wiper fluid pump work with pudding? How long does pudding hold its consistency at highway temperatures?

Subaru driving cervical mucus slams his breaks because he realizes he cannot get in front of you. He looks over to give you a dirty look but quickly recognizes your gift for the angry bald-man stare. You point at him and mouth the words: I am going to ass rape your favorite childhood pets in hell.

All this while you are slowing down to fifty so that your right-front bumper stays feet away from the truck’s left-rear.

Notes:

1. Wearing a bluetooth headset is basically the same as wearing a badge that says “I voted for Sarah Palin”. Not philosophically the same, maybe, but you fill me with the same degree of disdain.

2. Putting your cellphone on speaker-phone and holding it three inches from your head is not the same as using a hands free device. Same illegal, extra helping of antifungal vag cream.

3. If you’re racing up an otherwise empty lane that is merging into mine, and I swing over to cut you off, don’t even think about cursing animatedly at me. I will follow your mercedes driving ass home and take a piss through your mail slot, grandma.

Someday (maybe soon, probably not-soon), I will return the typewriter to a desk where I can sit and write in an absence of clutter, physical, mental, otherwise.

The typewriter, it is a good idea. More than just a soulful fuck-you to messages contained in one-forty character fences. Who wants to write with a countdown on their shoulder?

Who wants to write articles about how the New Communication is done is burps and bleeps?

Hi, my name is Spermicidal Lubricant and I am the new Poet Laureate of Wet Sauce, California: Send me glimpses of your experience in 140 character spurts and I will edit the best into an epic dump.

Society reflected into the computer world was shocking enough. Having the computer world reflect back out again is making my rectum quiver. And not in a good way.

—-

The typewriter is cold and alone, and I am going to let it remain so. For a month, for two or six months or a year. I am going to type in this box directly.

Because something has to happen here, and it isn’t going to happen on that typewriter.