No music rights: just homage to a soundtrackscape.
I am sick like dog: I say in my bestest, thickest Eastern European accent to the chef.
I am too ignorant to have a specific dialect, but the rasp in my voice is too deep to not enjoy, even if it hurts.
Ill since three a.m. The tasty haze of the deliciously grey day suits my fever.
a.m. texts go out.
1. The manager working.
I say: Ain’t well. Looking for a cover. If you don’t hear from me again, it means you guys are stuck with me doing my best.
I include exactly zero emoti-cons.
2. The potential covers.
I say: I’m sick. Host this morning?
No cover expected. Restaurant folk, generally do not rise before the early afternoon, at best, unless they are working. Were situations reversed, I would not come through either.
I sit on the patio and watch the day arrive between seven and eight.
Still and grey.
I take puffs off my electronic nicotine machine, knowing full well it will help nothing.
My inhaler: I love calling it.
Ya know I can’t cite the source, but I recall a study saying folks are statistically more likely to prefer being shocked with a low charge, over sitting in a room, alone, in silence for fifteen minutes.
So I put on an album called electro shock blues.
I don’t mind stillness. I can shock myself with my own thoughts.
So who is the glutton for pain? The ones who like a bit of shock-pain because being alone is too painful or the ones who get off on stillness?
/well, hee hee hee hee/
/Next thing you know/ You’re eat’n hospital food/
I arrive to work. I am released and sent home after an hour. I think they wanted see if I would show up and try.
It’s good to have reasons to persevere and
I say and i mean.
Because I get off on my intent to not let feeling bad make others feel bad or me feel worse.
Seems quite silly to say, as I put it into words now.
I am mostly light and love, but with a little bit of why-don’t-you-go-fuck-yourself for counterbalance.
Bare beneath a grey robe.
Leg warmers over calves and most of my feet.
Earl Gray tea with a bit of cream and vanilla extract.
An American Werewolf in London Faux-Fog: I silently entitle the bootleg concoction, in homage of the traditional London Fog tincture.
Back on the patio.
The wind chops and dices the waters of
into tiny, white-capped waves.
Little peaks of liquid mountains.
/I can hear you/
/Sing the one about the cat that’s always get’n wet/
Comes down the wires, from my tablet, into my Blue headphones.