Sitting in a café waiting t̶o̶ ̶d̶(̶l̶i̶v̶e̶)̶i̶e̶. There is dogfood art on the wall and I’ve got nice coffee from a barista [Barbie] with tattoos. Pull in one [a(?)] direction already. Like a kite in a park with no kid attached. Gone, going, past. Compliments are t̶o̶o̶ ̶c̶h̶e̶a̶p̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶  valuable these days. “All the girls drink for free.”

“****. ****. FuckFuckFuck.”

*******. Drink your sweet, dark-cherry stained lips. Dead eyes masked in mascara masquerading as more. “Bought with bourbon and goes down easy.”

Commodify, objectify, consume. Transactional romance drives a BMW.

A black and white film
About an old man and his dog.
There is no dialogue.
Just ambient sounds -

First, of the alarm clock’s
monotonous song.
Followed by an abrupt
cutting silence as his hand slams
down on the snooze button

Then, the sound of a coffeemaker
spitting and burbling.
The coffee, pouring into a chipped mug.
Sugar, then milk,
the clink of the spoon against the ceramic
as he stirs
the long first sip

As the man looks curiously
at something on the fridge,
just out of frame.
A bag of dogfood opening.

hard kibble ringing against the metal dish.
The dog grumbling - impatiently waiting.
Tupperware  opening
The hum of a microwave, and the beep.
Last night’s stew poured into a bowl
the rest, over the kibble.

The closed caption reads:
[Enthusiastic, sloppy eating noises]

The sound of water running
as the bowls are scrubbed clean.

The door closing as the two leave
for their morning walk.
The old man and the dog
are now sitting on a park bench.

The grass, still wet from the morning dew.
There is a beautiful sunrise
over the nearby lake.

The camera pulls away,
as music overtakes the diegetic sounds
of nearby parkgoers, birds and runners,
and teens playing hooky.

The camera cuts back to for a beat
to the kitchen
in the empty house.

The camera zooms in on a weathered
and well loved piece of paper
held up by a rainbow magnet
on the refrigerator door.

Fade to a black screen,
with white letters:
Fin.

My shower head was down to the last seven streams of water,
the other thirteen or so were either clogged
or just slowly dribbling out sad little droplets of hard water.
The calcium and lime buildup around the jets grew
greener and thicker with each day passing,
yet I never felt the inclination to attempt cleaning it.
I just stood there in the few remaining streams each day,
rotating slowly like the ballerina in my mother's jewelry box,
trying to wash away the ***** suds from my hair and shoulders.

Until one day,
after I had gotten home after a grueling twelve
hour shift at the dogfood plant where I worked and
stepped reluctantly into my bathroom, I peeled
the sweat stained clothes from my reeking body
and reached behind the curtains to turn on the water.
The only response I received from my poor shower
was a loud groaning noise, like a man attempting to
pass a particularly large kidney stone but having no luck.
Three or four drops of water escaped from the mere pressure
building up in the old pipes, then it quit altogether
and the groaning ceased with a brief moment of silence
before the face of the shower head burst, throwing plastic
shrapnel in every direction and spraying the ceiling and walls
with rusted water.

In my spoon I saw a reflection of the moon.
Recite the strange light from last night.
One afternoon in the summer month of June.
I saw a balloon with a candle,
in a bag tied to the handle.
A glowing object in the night sky.
Ascending really high.
The sun shirvels prunes.
Dogfood is eatten by squirrels & racoons.
A bright sunset of purple & maroon.
From the radio a peaceful tune.
Get out of the bath tub.
Yoshi is behind the neighbor's shrub.
Underneath the mistletoe.
He put his arm around my waist & hips.
I woke up & dreamed he kissed my lips.
Sinister thoughts no one fought.