Dowels of half-cocked assurances pick up stick through me and open suppurating portholes. I'm reminded of that high school production of Anything Goes. Angels blowing. Lamenting nowadays. Everything jumping away from tune with the exuberance of three thousand eyes on you. Pancake makeup drying future flowers.
"Sing" everyone tells me. After an hour on Youtube recording my warbling the advice is lost on me, having been repeated into unfamiliarity. SING SING SING SING SING SINGING SINGER SING SANG SUNG SINGED. All it does is make me 17. And fat.
I'm taking on water. Rather, I need bailing out—I don't know about the within and without of the moisture. It feels much more forced and created from thin air than the process of transferring the sea through the barrier of skin. There's a lot that needs letting out. This ship is really a few plywood flats painted white and gray.
Yesterday I threw away some rotten tomatoes. Lucky little tomatoes that got to give up. Hold on. Before long I'l have to make sure that dreams weren't involved in this ramble. And then I'll remember how far away dreams are. Blown across the world by Gabriel and his paper måché trumpet. Today and twelve years ago to this day. Two times the presence.