Dear Reader
2 Minutes Read Time
I suppose I can be forgiven for believing my brain might kill me, for failing to fulfill the prophecy
of potential. Even with the shabby gifts of a scalpel and a torch. I know, you want the signpost of
bright plumage. You want to know who gets the beach house. Who gets stuck with the cat. What
about the shoebox meal menu and the direction the train is headed; I get sick if I face the wrong
way. You want the king to find himself in exile and dance over hot coals on his return. It’s a cruel
tutelage. Do I sit there? How many hours should I bow in prayer? Laying naked in my bed, a lover
suggested I purchase a lava lamp for my nightstand. I said, “Sure, we can try being exclusive.” I’m
always looking for the message in the message. Think bottle. Think boat. So many fewer
connotations for bottle without the sea, without your puckered lips. There’s an image in here
somewhere, suspended like a red balloon tied up at a bike rack. It’s not the dance you don’t like,
just how I’m leading. Quotidian and arancini are words. You’re right, I want to turn every meadow
into a museum, and you want a machete to make your way through.
Read more from Issue 22.1.
