i wish
collective noun a couch of potatoes
I have no depth and everything within me is shallow and small. I waste this only thing time. I spend it as a charity on stultifying trivialities all pettifogging at the window’s pain like untrue love. I show off and on again. I’ve nothing. Not even that nothing. Only what is left by boiling too many bones too long: mostly, scum and smell and the evaporation of beauty; mostly, strong dark waters no one would drink, but for their health.
I sit here, boiling far too many suns. But only as they fall across the water, winglike, saving daylight. Using words like jewels to deflect my nakedness and shame. A continual dinning sound like tinnitus, bling! bling! bling! Body fat and gemstones, a clattering cup’s old soup. Using time like words which can be flattened silent to the page. A couch of potatoes. A combine of harvests. A chapel of waysides. A nun of that.
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The Nun of That rose from her couch and op’ed the door for the Monk of Then, to whom an unseen hand would drop a sack of potatoes every day through a special chute into the room. Soon they forced the future into a box called Rupert-Word, a shiny box, and proceeded to see it shifting in the shadows, catching window light by day and star and moon by night, and they loved them some little talk about the little box, raging over its suggestion of safety, how it must be the thing protectin’ from those dancers on the lawn, among the forest, up in the trees, doing who knows what with what knows whom. One day they embraced and found it shocking, and did it again, soon picking up the jewels and the brown robe to observe the box again, how it seemed to forgive them for overcoming shame. But still they would not open the door. No, Then, not That. For they were content with who they were and were likely to stay.
They *do* love them some little talk about the little box! How lovely and compassionately said. Merci, monsieur.
Beautiful.
Thank you, j’Axon.