You going to write something? Finally.

Larks are large mammals from the terrible twos family. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of any other way to start this sentence. 'Zonkers' is still my favorite made up word. Silly mimes mimed their way across the street where the awaiting people welcomed them with large metallic sticks. She held her hair back with a fluorescent pink scarf.

There are monsters in my room. I should know because I am one of them, a monster.

He wouldn’t know the truth if it snuck up and took a bite out of his pants.

This is not me and has never been me. I see that now. Where others, the others who rise from the night and exclaim to the world around them that there is something they die to tell, those others, where they know there’s something out there for them, I’m not so sure anymore. I used to try and resist the others, to dance around the boundaries of the otherness and see what was on the other side. Now, I content myself with knowing that while the otherness is out there, I’m not so sure I want to find out what it is or who brought it out.

This pain forgot to tell me how it was going to end. I’m like that. I skip to the end of suspenseful movies and books, reach for the answers, and then slowly watch the build up after I know where it’s heading. That way I can enjoy without worrying.

I reach around and poke her on the nose. Her nose is sweet, reddened from the cold, and a bit too thin at its point. She scrunches up her nose, an attempt, I surmise, to cast a spell on me. It works, and my world turns red and her nose disappears in its redness.

I don’t trust Doolies. I’m not going to read it. Irregardless, I’ll turn it this way so Doolies can’t see it. I’m not going to read it, it’s too long. “I don’t trust Doolies,” ha ha!

The sun reflected off the disc. He threw it.

So many wasted words, so much pretending to warm up but secretly having given up on the sense that this is something I can or even want to do. It’s hurtful, but push through. The rubber imagery. The wall, the rubber wall, I push my hand through, but only the rubberized fist appears on the other end.

Methodological. Sketches and raises. Thoughts and feelings. By ‘raising’ I mean elevating to the level above this one. The thoughts and feelings on the thing that I am raising or considering raising to the next level. So many useless words on a useless Sunday. At least Doolies is here to keep me busy while I dwell in my own uselessness. Such a good word uselessness is. It’s like pathetic but without the yummy caffeine aftertaste.

Rolling on the rate of the railing. Raised up on reels of roaches across the roads of rambling he rides. Where would we want would we want wheels wheeling where wiles will wander. Righteousness. Training for a triathlon. Goals over painted arms and drippy hair. Conflict and troubles and inspiration. Where to find what to do and where to go? Inspiration followed by perspiration and dedication and righteous indignation. I’m reaching here to find nothing by hobgoblins and wondering why they’re not green. Where’s my instant-gratification video game world, where I press a button and the world around me changes by the established rules? Why is it sucking the energies from me and do I really care?

He’s a poet. The poems he can print out and analyze, each line a meaning, or, if not a meaning, at least a chance to transform into a meaning. A story is not so much with each page a meaning, but no chance to take the time to edit each word and find where there is something that needed to be said in that page. Irked. Leisure time wasted with what wears. Why won’t we come together on this? Zilch.

Anger arises over banquets of fire. Why won’t I want to do something? Scheduling. Riding the time. The benefits of work over related to the rising corn of time. He tries as he might to tear up his thoughts but finds that there’s not much there, nothing to grab on to and find that is worth tearing. Why would anyone want to read this? I don’t even want to write this, I want to write something that I care about, and yet this is all that’s stuck in the clog. Maybe once I fight through the clog, start doing this again religiously (like the rest of my religious activities, like my morning exercises and afternoon video game playing—oh, wait, that shouldn’t be listed under religion but under the sins of David’s life). Zonkers.

Throw a bunch of words against the wall and watch them crawl. Down. It’s funny how WORDS CRAWL DOWN THE WALL. I never wanted to do that, use capitalization for an exclamation, but it was fun and I thought I should do it at least once to show that I knew how, to use caplocks, that is. Too much metawriting and not enough writing of anything of worthwhileness. No spelling suggestions for that word. A pain in the ass is what this is. Spent the whole day planning to do something and arrived home and didn’t want to do any of it. That’s the world in an overpriced nutshell.

Green O red P green E green N. For business. Not sure what the business is. Couldn’t tell you what it’s for. Could tell you, if you asked, and I really wish you would, ask, that is, the purpose behind the business. NEQID again. I hate that term. I wish it had some meaning outside of its cleverness. All cleverness, all writing is a search for that cleverness, for that momentary spark of ahha! I’m sick of that ahhaing. I’m sick of everything raise to the level of surprise, twist, outrageous change, or aliens killed by microbes.

I’m a teapot for the day. I pour tea into the cups of customers. Some understand my uses, my powers, others wait for me to explain it to them. I’m not far eastern, although most people think I am. I’m made in Connecticut, a place in New England. Most people couldn’t find it on a map. I’m okay with that. I’m not sure I could find it on a map, especially since I’m a teapot and I don’t have eyes exactly. They’re more of a spout.

It’s good to be crazy now and again, as long as the now outweighs the then. It isn’t now, outweighed, that is. Now it’s more of a tight-lipped random bebopper of coolness. A Dean & Deluca t-shirt that nobody should buy and someone seems to. My philosophy is written on a t-shirt by another. How can that be? I want me own thoughts to resonate across the halls of righteousness and coolness and uniqueness, another euphemism for coolness. I read the paper and the ink mumbles.