Trite

I sat downstairs eating kisses all evening watching Stephen Fry's Q.I. and letting the day's weights slip off my shoulders, and now I've come upstairs and checked out ninetynights.com and my email for signs of life, and thinking about the fast-writes that Julie Frayer assigned to us that great semester of creative writing, when it was Eli and Paul and me and Mayor McCheese, and times were different, for one thing I didn't say things like "times were different", because I knew perfectly well that people have always, always been people. So here I am trying the fast-write thing again, non-stop tappety-tap-tap on the keys, dragging in whatever stimulus presents itself, not deleting if at all possible, the jars of sand on the computer desk brought to me from Hawaii, the empty Pepsi bottle, the Feathers McGraw keychain, and what this makes me remember is, yeah, that class again—I was so thick into my fantasy worlds then, building societies and wildernesses, lifting up characters I wanted to watch on screen, if only someone would make my movie—and I could never write a script, really, the one time I tried was at IUSB and they roped in a couple drama students to read it aloud (not just me, everyone else's too) and I must have been firetruck red, and now my concentration is being interrupted by some loud woman erupting from my wife's computer's speakers—some little piece of "news" that's circulating today, apparently—and anyway where did I leave off? Right, right, the play, the play's the thing and boy, hasn't—


—back, had to bring the dog inside from our wonderful arctic wonderland, ever seen an abominable snowman flip out when three dozen balloons of cocaine burst inside him? Okay, if you haven't seen that episode of Robot Chicken you're severely worried about me, but that's alright, fortunately my bro has the same sense of humor and we laugh when nobody in their right mind probably would. Yeah, that's him working his tail off in the warehouse where they only promote family members and screw the rest every chance they get, but enough biography let's talk about your chances in the cosmic race where you've slipped on your diamond running shoes and found you've got a soul, a rather nice one shining and looking for a reason, any reason really not to fly the coop at the first opportunity, and lucky for you you ol' boondoggle horny toad there are oodles of reasons around every bend, not the least of which is spring who even now turns restless in her bed, ready to rise and tie on the green dress one more time again, but until then, better keep your shirt on, Peggy. It's cold. Real cold.