Any Old Day




I woke, had coffee, then sat on the deck,  planned my short day. I thought of winter. It is very hot. I thought of being inside with a short hike through the snow, spring being too wet and winter too cold and summer too hot and it’s still spring so nothing matters about the weather.

I have my mind full of flamingos. I am stuffing a head with the eyes staring at me. Why does this matter to anyone, this stuffing the head and the staring eyes. I could be chopping vegetables, pulling weeds or walking in the field. This head is just another head needing a body. I’m not fond of pink anymore.

Dinner will be eaten but I will still have this head. I am working listening to music by the river. I have lost sight of what counts. I could be passing coffee through a window to a stranger. He could be stuffing a flamingo for all I know.

I am proceeding with my day even though it means nothing. I have a list. I like striking things off. Some lyrics wedge inside me. ‘Be Something. Fuck the rest.’ I have two legs, two arms on my list. This list is useless to anyone else. Two arms, two legs. Who would understand it. I could write ‘Lie on the grass all day.’ Then strike it off and go have wine with G.

The punctuation is coffee to start, wine to end. In the middle is the list. My list populates my world with Flamingos. There is no killing or cruelty on my list. My list is just a suggestion to make me feel vital. Feed the dog is never on a list, water the plants is. I have starved a plant but never a dog.

A day is a block of time filled with light. I could leave it at that. I could put on my boots after coffee and head down the drive. I could walk all day and head back up the drive for wine. Only the flamingos would be missing.






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