Where Does Toochi Find the Time?

Toochi cups his hands, blows into the flesh cavern, desirous to fill the crevices in-between fingers, to clarify plagiarizing words from gestures. Touch of porcelain is vanilla fanfare, touch of purple and John the Baptist’s head sings of the coming rapture, touch of a parking sign and the neighborhood children question the motive to eat vegetables.  

Toochi is certain a slow moving red Prius is following him, its color morphs from red to pink as the sun interchanges angels of inflection on the metal exterior. Cataracts abound, he pauses on the street corner, removes his cellphone, points the camera toward the sky and films the overcast. Pink Prius is down the block, driver watches Toochi’s actions in the rear-view. The red Prius pausing has Toochi concerned, and the driver is bound to question the filming of a blank sky. Both of them ponder on the other, until another other captures their interest.

President Trump is the Afterthought of Postmodern Progress

Encounters, brief as highway exchanges, saved on fascinated tongues, rolling Rs, or selling short the T, to complement a verbal fascination when language confided in description: Homebody lifted a glass filled with cheap bourbon and set it down on the corner of his table, and bolstered from lessening standard animations, his limbs procured to flail, puncturing speech with gestures to ensure the audience was on him, influx of caution revealed its conclusion as his fingertips toppled the glass, bourbon pooled in the corner of his table, while the plastic barrier bordering the ledge, no taller than a centimeter, prevented it from spilling to the ground.   

Audience demanded a very American hubris, the kind instructing apologies to occur after brushing a stranger’s shoulder in the frozen vegetable aisle of the supermarket, (friction between consumers), or a promise to spay and neuter a house-pet, or simply to state please while asking for vegetables during dinner.

Homebody tore a square of paper towel from its ream, took a bow and used the towel to soak up the liquid, days progressed, the smell of bourbon wafted from his garbage and Homebody thought: ‘oh yeah, I should dispose of this mess outside.’ But abandoned his thought for the smell reminded him of life now and he stared at a robin’s nest through his kitchen window, facing his backyard, and contemplated saturating the eggs in the basket with his touch, so the mother had an excuse to leave.

As If It Mattered

Hypnotized by the train clacking along, abbreviated pulse of bass notes. 
Anxiety medication decorates the corners of a smile with dry skin,
To signal morning has arrived, to rectify tap water rolling off 
Tongue and cheek. 

Workers anxious of late arrivals, veer into the turn lane 
To avoid the train, stalled on the tracks. 

A sigh holds the style of cigarette smoke, but ashes dance
To the bottom, while a sigh portends the extended wave 
goodbye ,stuttering to a lull, masterpiece on scratch paper,
Selected for its edges. 

Budgeting 20 dollars 
Through the pay period 5.00 for gas,
Rest in sugar.  

We’re paid for, or else we buy in…

Railway signal halts the blinking of red lights,
Arm extends heavenward, inviting us to go the distance. 

Routine interrupted, to the day we become. 

Presentational Distress of the Echo Chamber

Concept of echo, as if understood at the ledge dipping voice into an empty chasm built from stone and water, demonstrates the very desire to hear back. The gesture is infiltrated by various distortions, hiccups, a cough, impenetrable laughter, confines of genetic material to which we lack dominance. We surrender then to vibrations, decorating the stone walls. But at the outset understood the lingering voice is owned by the shouter. This boomerang resiliency complicates the trajectory to structure Self, to place it concretely as the walls concealing the echo. We then must laugh at the inside punchline, puncturing a belly full of humor, watch as this fog lingers and distorts vision to distinguish from here to there. The influx of distance requires the observer to abandon all subjective intent to appreciate clarity as it manifests. Then, on the horizon, as the fog lifts and the cityscape dissipates to nothing more than glass and concrete, we know where to tread, where to appreciate mirrors as windows, where to welcome the voice back home.