... ..clean ....December 7, 2004   Framed between slats of my bedroom window blinds, a crescent moon shines like a radioactive fingernail clipping.  Scrapings of moonlight fall across my face, silence sharpens my senses.  I think upon the dying day. The salad dressing was subpar, largely because I failed to purchase extra virgin olive oil.  It wasn't even virgin oil and the mixed greens tasted slutty.  The potato trick fizzled when the spud tumbled from my boxer shorts and fell to the floor.  The ribeyes were reduced to pure carbon as I confessed a creeping dementia.  After dinner, we trimmed the Christmas tree.  The picture frame ornaments still held photographs of models hired by the ornament manufacturer.  In response to questioning, I explained that the models, while technically not my children, were in fact "children of God," and since I was also a child of God, the model children were my siblings.  She seemed satisfied. The satisfaction didn't last.  I got busted for speeding through her erogenous zone.  In keeping with the season, she let me go with a warning. Now I lie upon my bed and consider the moon which, after all, looks nothing like a forced simile.  The day was a wash.  But in this time of lowered expectations, a wash leaves me feeling clean. previous..|..current..|..archives..|..4th quarter index..|..next

©  2004 by the beastmaster