This is dedicated to the four faithful lanes of traffic I bisect every morning.


There are days when all I can manage is to clutch at my stomach, as if I were pregnant with a fetid little stool in my womb, ready to unleash its putrid intelligence so the whole world can see what dirty thoughts I think. And it's surprising how easy it is to fool people - all you need is a ready-to-go smile and cunning reassurance and they'll think you're just playing with some interesting trinket in your pocket. I wish I were and I wish I didn't panic so readily at the thought of being stripped of the false pretenses I employ; you can't have my secrets, do you hear? You can't see the insides of my pockets, the insides of my mind, because both are empty, empty as the world we live in.

The flowers at my funeral will probably be pink because no one understands that I really truly hate the color pink, its gushing sentimentality it displays and how it is obviously red that didn't have enough courage to bleed itself completely dry of color. I wonder who will actually care, five years from now and five years after I've gone to live with the worms. No one really cares, no matter how much they stink up the air with professed friendship and denial of solitude; no one knows of my secret marriage to blackness, to the starry sky and all that lays beyond. No one wants to admit that we are only stardust.

Then there are the days when I am just a piece of furniture blessed with eyes; I am everyone's pillow and everyone's shoulder-rest and everyone's voodoo doll. I like these days because no one offers me pity and nothing pains me and it seems as though God actually exists. I do not have to peek through the foliage of humanity to see the sunset nor do I have to curse the streetlights into submission because they eclipse the night sky. And it doesn't matter that the hydrangeas bleed their pompous odor or that the world is too brightly colored all of a sudden because without these fluttering little occurances and jazzy festivals of life everyone would immediately commit suicide.

It's these days when I am torn between writing and reading, the exploitation of the written word or becoming a voyeur to their clandestine orgies that explode with such meaning and brave imagery. I want to write like Fitzgerald and Chabon and Plath and Kafka and Lawrence and Doctorow, because their words are all I know. I want to write until my brain fairly bleeds out of love for the language. The second hands can keep dancing circles around the sluggish minute hands, and the hour hands can creak in their fixed orbits, but I will be here forever, it seems, chronicling the adventures of a human fulcrum using nothing but twenty-six shades of mellifluous honeyed letters.