4827. A ROOMY CABIN FOR BULKY CLOTHES

A ROOMY CABIN FOR 

BULKY CLOTHES

The universe is a problem, an accent on a language 

that does not exist, an image projected within, from 

which no separate self-light emits except darkness. 

We crinkle our fingers around an orb and say 'this is it.'

-

I have a hankering for nothing, and nothing to hanker for.

Here again, the voices are warbling, 'soon to be the darkest,

soon to be the shortest day again.' Take that solstice stuff

and shove it please; for only is lonely as lonely believes.

Better believe me instead, 'there is nothing, Jeeves.'

-

One time, in a boiling attic, I feel asleep for a decade. I

was sick, and a headache and nauseous degrees of angst

had gripped me like fever. I awoke, transformed, and some

people from England started feeding me warm tomatoes on

toast. They said to eat up, this was breakfast in Britain.

-

And what did I know; I did what they said. A car that I

called for finally came and got me  -  drove me away to

another day  -  perhaps this one here, I forget. The driver

said his name was Dave. 'Like David, in the bible, but much

more suave.' I laughed at that while he suavely drove, that

Dave. The universe is a problem; an accent on a language

that has no reason to exist. Yes, we seem to still struggle 

with this. We crinkle our fingers, and say 'this is it!'