endless laughter…

After yesterday, any kind of improvement at all is taken with grateful acceptance. Who knew it would be a day of fulfillment on the order of trick-dreams? That must have been some kind of cosmic bonus; the cherry in the middle of the sundae. Everybody likes to hold a winning ticket; just my luck that they all show up on the same days. Still, complaining wouldn’t be right. Nothing worse than the kid who discovers he’s already got what he most wants and (gasp!) finds out it ain’t enough. It’s an accident, and nobody got hurt. Who could ask for anything more?

The mortar and pestle are treating me as well as can be expected; being that I have high expectations, if not outright aspirations of glory, that’s pretty fucking good. Memories can be obliterated in a sort of random mutation, assuming I’ve got the proper medications to treat such a theoretical malady. Deep discussion, even when the mind is calcified, can still nullify probing questions. The Marquesa never lets diplomacy get in the way her questions. Our back-and-forth gives off the scent of temptation. That’s the good part. The bad part is that the temptation is channeled through a cheesecloth until all that’s left is the thought of what could be. Usually you have to have some kind of torrid Parisian love affair to get that kind of eloquence.

It all builds to a sort of off-key chuckle. Maybe the nerves are working overtime trying to force some movement in the muscle? It all works out the same, and win or lose, the point is made. What was the point again? Effusive change wrapped up in faux bacon? It always comes back to bacon. Subjectively, this may say more about the dreamer than the dream, if you catch my drift. Sigh…why can’t it be easier to end up staring into the eyes of a like minded compadre wearing nothing but a smile and looking like the first sunrise? Same answer as ever. That damnable need for working towards something hard to achieve. It is a damn conundrum, that much is true.

I fell asleep for a few minutes while staring at the carpet and trying to pry open my eyelids that I had so carefully pasted shut. Brief dreams seemed to last forever; flip-flops on the north pole, moon-boots on the equator. I pulled my winter hat down over my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look towards the sky. Anything that big is too heavy to fly. Pornographic t-shirts hover three to four feet above the ground, dragged on by legs in tight jeans over bare feet. Just my style. I’m in love with the way they talk. The ones that have anything important to say speak with the same wings they keep hidden under the porno-shirts. Most of the words are casual in that Southern manner, but the swear words call attention to themselves. It ain’t so much a color as a shade; ain’t so much an invitation as a plea.

The dreams are all vanity; anything composed of so much self has to be. All the same, there’s enough room for all of them, assuming any kind of compromise. That’s a dangerous assumption when the president of Kyrgyzstan can’t wander his hometown without fear of getting shot. Imagine what the rest of us have to put up with. All in terms of dreams, obviously. Somewhere out there is a “someone” breathing quietly, almost asleep and I’m just dying to find out what it sounds like. Everything else being equal, how do you ask a question without giving away those little hidden desires that keep even the laziest of us tied to the rock?

There’s never an answer to those kind of questions. Just blank looks and nervous laughter. Endless laughter. Always laughter. Another night at the ready, trying to provide concrete examples of poetry; that kind of thing. Set off from the rest of a damn good day is the same slick-tongued theory that started the day off. At this point, it ain’t about trying to tell someone anything. It’s hard enough keeping it to yourself. Comparatively simple, or at the very least easy. As long as the laughter keeps coming, we’ll know we’re on the right track. Why else would anyone be laughing?

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