And the Days

And goodness but it is morning again.

Very soon They will be here and will drag me away from you, dear ones.

(Don't you fear They, on mornings like this?)

(And didn't you wish we had something to talk about?)

I did.

Instead there is Not.

And a My Goodness what terrible things are happening in my brain/stomach.

Should I tell you facts?

And last night there was the Halfshell. I met the new friends, which are called Cat and Marine. We all went to the Bar, and Scotty was there, or as I like to think of him, Super Mario, and last night he seems to have eaten a one-up mushroom, because he was totally and creepily hitting on Marine like he had at least 3 lives left if she stabbed him. I kind of wished she would, so that when he came back I could step on him and squash him. You know what I mean? Also, the band was good.

What else is occurring in the rambling vastness of my secretly vacant mind?

I have a vision of a willow tree, a willow tree by a pond --

A pond, or a creek? A pond, I think. Not swampy, but fetid; and scum floating on top; a stray mosquito buzzes, but has no interest in drinking us, or if he did we would give up gladly our happy blood; spiders skulk through the woodchip leafy ground and ants of course going about their tasks or perhaps having a war as they do in the leaves;

It is morning on the eighth day, and you are there with me, and everything is soft and orange and no one was ever sad or drunk or dead;

We can live there maybe in a ramshackle shack and a tomato patch and rows of beans and cabbages; honeybees, a chicken for eggs, I finally have become good at fishing and that we can grill for the supper;

When you go outside in the morning the sunlight catches in your hair and sort of sparkles in that way it only can in morning, and the morning of the world is a morning like no other morning ever can be again and thus you glow and radiate but never so that the birds ever fear to look at you;

I am kind again, and all this sin forgiven. Mornings the cat and I go and visit with the toads who call us by name, and in the evening I play little songs on a flute made of wood, little songs that have no words because words will never come to plague us; and nobody has written any books to poison my mind.

Wouldn't it be, and, oh, couldn't it be? Who insisted we learn to walk upright? Why did all these hearts transform to such sharp swords? When sunlight shimmers on the water like this, that's when I hear God whistling inside of me.

All these visions fade in a way that dreams never can. We all return to empty.