after several good whiskys neat
he couldnt be held responsible
for shit
not for the hummingbird sugar water madly
boiling on the electric range
which he ignored
despite it smelling like burnt caramel or marshmallows and permeating
the house
yes
he did put it on the stove
yes
he admired its first traces of thin
bubbles beginning
their silver threads
becoming globes
shaking on the bottom of
the pot breaking loose appearing like perfect spheres of
mercury
in
search of other spheres to meddle and mingle with . . .
yes
he had admired their sudden breach from the pots bottom and rocking the
surface . . .
although
he was already imagining them merging with the air in the yellow kitchen
as if he was
submerged in an atmosphere of
slick slippery mercury
and
the room filling
filling
pushing at the glass paned windows bulging them
erupting like flamethrowers
into the sweating mercury atmosphere outside
the house
its mad boil then scorching and browning the bellys of the clouds
suspended above
suspended
they
had been anchored in place staked out
by a god who
took exception to their pitiful construction
its bad artistry
and while
he couldnt punish himself
he could
certainly punish torment and torture his creations
it was something he excelled
at
excelling at it as well as he
excelled at his divine
creativity
creativity
yes he had several whiskys
and he was going to have
several more
the
night was early
the elastic taffy bubbles
forming on the stove were a promising beginning to whatever
was to follow
yes
he was out ahead of himself
but he
of all the things he was certain of in this queer xistence swirling about his head
like a swarm of blue
bottle flies
he was
blinkered-certain of not wanting to follow in his wake
if some thought god fucked
things up
he was proving
himself an enthusiastic capable understudy
2054, Thursday,
10 7. 14
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