Saturday, February 07, 2015


I'm on a bus. I'm breathing heavily. I shouldn't be this out of shape. I just ran ten meters, probably less, but I can't catch my breath. I'm sitting next to the window and the purple paisley curtain is blocking the sun. I'm trying not to freak out (I'm trying not to freak out, I'm trying not to freak out). A toddler is screaming, "Give it! Give it!" and his screaming is putting lightning bolts into my brain. There's a foul odor of spoiled food and soiled diapers. I want to vomit.

But I have to be somewhere, so I don't get off. I tap my foot instead. It's the only thing that keeps me grounded. I might fly away otherwise. Gravity.

There is no such thing as beautiful. It's an amorphous concept. A broken knuckle or a caved-in skull can be beautiful. So can a door rotted by erosion. So can a mosquito.

I'm so tired. There's a wheel inside my head, and it won't stop spinning. Its spokes are made of crimes and cruelty.

I have to constantly remind myself that I know how to walk and how to breathe. "Hey, dummy," I tell myself, "it's not that hard." Walking and breathing are the easiest things in the world. So why are they so hard for me?

I get off the bus and enter a coffee shop. Or maybe it's a cafe. I don't know the difference. There are people talking about stuff. They look very serious. I order a regular-size Americano. I hope I pronounced that correctly.

The coffee is hot and bitter. I enjoy it. I stare out the second-floor window. Outside, people are coming and going, this way and that way. What interesting lives they must all lead. That woman looks like a dentist. I bet that stocky guy with the leather briefcase is a former bodyguard who got fired for sleeping with his client's charge.The woman pushing a stroller has a fake baby and a bomb inside of it.

I finish my coffee and take the subway home. I like the subway. It's honest; it doesn't try to be something it isn't.

When I get home I feed my dog and take a tangerine out of the refrigerator. I lie down in bed and peel it. The rind is mushy, but the sections inside are still sweet. I name each one as I eat them.








Good night, ladies.

I have a stomachache when I awake. I try to throw up in the toilet but am too late and have to use the bathroom sink as a substitute. Any port in a storm. Cleaning that later is going to suck.

It's raining outside now. I'm in bed. I'm counting how many fingers I have on each hand.  Five on both. Next I look at the light fixture above the bed. It looks like an apparition that will steal my soul. Maybe it already has.

The last three issues of Samurai Rabbit were never published.

They never will be.

Z is the letter of

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