Last night I went out to eat at an Irish pub, ate a burger, and have been completely useless all day. Food poisoning.
I was in the parking lot of a Chili’s here in once-provincial Morris, Illinois last night with my mom and Dave, and this whole trip home revealed itself to be worthwhile. There, like the exotic and reclusive Kiwi of New Zealand, was the bra-spotter’s dream come true. The Big Mid-Western Parking Lot Bra of the Middle West. I hurriedly reached for my camera and took a snapshot for posterity. I’ll be sending it to the rare bras department of the Audubon Society next week. I hope I haven’t missed deadline for their publication of the 2005 Rare Bras of These Middle Western States. Truly, this Chili’s, and all the others just like it, is “Like no place else,” just like the big sign tells you when you walk in.
This is an order.
Quicksand’s Slip is a clean, vitriolic snort of hot mercury. I’m so mad I don’t know if I want to fuck or fight.
The fish in solitude, in communion with the houseplant the roots of which extend into his bowl
every day swim around swim around
And me in my room, in communion with messages encoded as music inside the bowl inside my mind
bob your head
talking to the things we have by changing for them