Heaven
My City of God earns more money than your City of God.
I can only take so many derogatory comments (sip highball) about suburbanite small talk. I explode and don´t even lose consciousness long enough to forget who you are.
That ain´t mean it´s Mohammed Ali.
Once, as a material child, I specialized in making people happy. Now not so young, ever since last Tuesday, I specialize in nothing.
Once eight years ago I passed a correspondence course in justice for aardvarks and zebras.
I wore a Lily of the Valley crown because it smelled good to me.
All I want is a telegram or a miracle of some kind.
As our duel came closer and closer my nerves started to ruin my life (again) like a maniacal double, and I´m not talking about my mother or my sister. I mean my Superego.
You´re not there. Where are you?
3 is a small number. Just counting levels of consciousness, indeed relative, I count 17.
Books I´ll never read on my shelves
During the flood chapter, I eat tuna with mayo and Saltines. During fire, I drown in champagne. No Freud no joke, at least it felt like that. Left to right. This overlaps with my mail world and the sound of the mailbike.
That one is where my headache came from.
In the background with electronic imagery shame blankets envy like no index. How much is enough? (chairs, countries) Can´t decide which is worse, my deed or my dromedary.
My loose affiliation with the music scene disappeared once I found the trapdoor. I used it once too often. I knew it was wrong. Sometimes I do.
Always room for improvement, will move the biographies to the lower fields. A little mist, add a carriage, it could be the French Revolution countryside. I was destitute the year I graduated and took a lot of naps. That´s why I didn´t read your novel, what´s it called, Something Hotel.
It´s a fact that children come with a manual all about multi-tracking and I can´t cry all the time.
What to do next
That time in the barrack room I didn´t mean what I said.
The other day, when I was asleep, maybe
I forgot to idealize one particular man.
There are bundles of letters in a rustic basket
under my bathroom sink.
Once, under the influence of a prank phone call
I read through them all and doctored them up a bit.
At the estate sale I picked up assorted ladders
speckled with paint and a broken swivel chair.
File marked "dead, dried branch" contains the next clue.
My dance card collection is on the chopping block.
Last night while playing bibliomancy I stumbled
upon a life-alterning event that I had never noticed before.
Salt is so plentiful, but I still consider it my permanent option, a legacy.
© Valerie Fox 2006
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