Memory Foam


It is broken.  Does it require of me that I buy a new spacer kit?  What if I counter-offer with a brand new ball assembly?

The right answer ran between the left guard and the left tackle, to the house.

I am from Illinois but I live in Missouri.  This does not make me anxious.  I do not spend an hour a day imagining the explanations I will offer as justification when someone asks me, “What are you doing here?”  Or says, in the pejorative, “Go back to your Land of Lincoln.”

Among the retorts I am readying are sayings like, “I’m about half as depressed as I could be.”  Or, “Man, you craZy man.”  Or, “That dog really knows how to cheer me up, you know?”  If the situation became dire I might ask, “Do you think you could drive from Texas to Florida wearing only a diaper?”

“Huh?  That doesn’t make any sense,” they’ll say.

Yeah, maybe they’re right.  I’ll follow with,  “It’s a rough draft.  Big deal.  I’m breathing here, I’m doing my reps.  I’m looking for a place to start over—I need a way back in!”

Dreading such an encounter, I went out anyway.  I bought gum; took an unnecessarily long walk wrapped in the guise of doing errands.  I snuck up on several businesses from behind; found cooks and waitresses caressing cigarettes.  I saw messy dumpsters, broken stucco, vestigial insulation and unexpected desolation.

When my wife got home, I put my work in front of her, gave her some time with it.  Then we sat on the back deck for the first time in months.

I said, “What did you think of the prototype?”

“I thought it was good,” she said, “it was decent.”  She picked at a mole on her forearm.  She looked up, “It was OK.”

Piano, and … a rhythm.  What kind of music is this?  It was beautiful outside.  I sipped from two separate piñas colada.  A little gust spun the propeller on the hat on the head of the dog.

“We could go to Canada,” I said.

“Canada?”  she asked, eyes wide, abandoning the mole.  “Honey, they don’t make anything in Canada except cough drops and hockey players.”

I didn’t like how things were going so I went inside and scrobbled to, just like tom yum soup.


Oh, so I have to buy a special pillow to be a poet in bed again?


“You are suspended for losing your wife, sir.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Well, that and the gizzards.”

“Oh, yeah … the gizzards.”

“Do you remember the gizzards?”

“Yeah, I, no.”

“If you don’t remember the gizzards, then….”

“Did I — can you just tell me whether I uttered the phrase, ‘What happens when the sauce gets sauced?'”


These pillows need to be burned.  Can anyone tell me why it is 10:35 p.m. Newfoundland time?  There are lights outside the windows but no fan.  My face is red with vodka and too much music.

Wedding accordion, eye twitch.  I filled the bicentennial samosas with Indian-head nickels.

“We can’t use these!  They’re worse than peas.”

Federico Fellini bought the old Dodge dealership, ran it into the ground.

“Boondocks or die trying,” he said.

But I’m thinking, Why didn’t he just use Bitcoin to save it?

“Because Ansel Adams, wearing a tuxedo, planted 87 crosses in just the right places during magic hour, winning the game by a score of 3-2.”


You claim not to have had anything to do with the attack on Pearl Harbor but am I supposed to believe it’s just a coincidence you were born on December 7th, all these years later?


I found a little bag of grass and smoked it.  This time it really was oregano.

I can’t help but sit here thinking.  What felt good for me must’ve felt good for you, that’s how we got along, our broccoli finish, our cauliflower coalition.


In a former life I was sunlight finding a kitchen in the perfect angle of winter.  If the world splits open, reveals happiness within, how many of us are going in after it?

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