Stevie-the-llama

            Everyone on the street was muttering that summer about the discovery of my father’s death, though there were few people in the town that knew the full story of when I’d, supposedly, found his body. Only Tilda, Ralph and I knew, and Old Mr. Jennings had observed the whole discovery from his usual position on his dilapidated porch, in his rickety rocking chair that I imagined was older than him. It was impossible to say for certain how much Mr. Jennings knew.            Sometimes I would close my eyes and see Mr. Jennings, only an infant in this day dream, getting rocked gently to sleep by his mother in that very rocki

hi’s are for hyper-conventional persons, getting caught between the folds. could i soften the creases? escape normality? who’s to say what’s normal anyway? we’re all drifting between sanity and lunacy, like a sailboat on the waves. we thrash wildly about, attempting to breathe, finding there’s no air. lungs compressed against the earth with nothing to take in. words are beyond the thickened atmosphere. i have lost myself again.

white turn black and limb stop moving, faltering into the daylight of dilapidation. morning after mourning, the same. paused and rewound video tape life, begin again, begin again, over and over. mundane. weary. dreary. life not lived to full potential, nothing leads to more nothing, empty chain of events, unequivocally dull, leading nowhere. no way out, no way out. call for an assist, no one hears.

i think you're one for the history books. just as the Berlin wall fell, you will too—gaining almost as much attention. you will come to realize your full potential, but it will be too late. you will finally achieve your dream, and then you'll wake up. you will create an artistic masterpiece that will hang on your mother's fridge. in the future, your kids will stop coming to see you. you will write a fantastic manuscript that no one will publish. please replace the insulation in your attic, the raccoons aren't comfortable enough. don't get too comfortable, you'll soon be uprooted. get out more, no one likes a bum. your story will be made

silence speaks in unabridged volumes extending far and wide to wrap around the ears of people otherwise unaware of the violence that envelopes those too afraid to speak out for themselves.

i lose myself in you— in the way you sweep your shawl across your back, fringe whipping in the whirl- wind you create while twirling across a glimmering stage. i am lost inside every tambourine tap upon your platform-booted, chiffon covered legs—every sultry tone emitted from your throat submerges me in a world i never want to leave. there's a mystery i find in you, in the life you've lead. i want to be wrapped in your chiffon—to be wrapped up "within the wings of a storm".

God created the universe in seven days. seven days could turn to seven months, seven years, seven decades...in a blink. with a flash and a flicker, seven rebels run from blinding light. fusion theory, exploding into fragmented light. black hole rain down, seven devils for seven continents. world consumed in chaos. this is the future we choose.

days fall into each other, endlessly tumbling into eternity. a string of trivial events making up an unequivocally trite timeline of lifelessness, droning on into days minute in the universal scheme. nothing holds the meanings we'd like to see within our lives.