A Page of Words for Inspiration

Water drips, power trips and I am slowly drowning in the
basement of some nineteen seventies living space where the air is always dry
and light switches send flames into the air and up my sleeve. They said it’s
the season, but my belief is that some self-righteous piece of shit has come to
sterilize me, claiming arson on the whole damn place. There’s burn marks on the
walls already, black fingerprints mapping out the way to hell, or heaven but I
have only experienced the latter. I’ve traced the path paced the carpet patio,
rug, wipe your feet, kitchen drawer, metallic in endless supply if only
everything could be check the coffee table check it off the list forgot the
shot glass in the microwave again. Curious eyes watch as an ounce of water
boils and the bacteria screams for mercy in the vacuum. This dirt devil handles
with care the likeness of the cast iron hand to those microorganisms sliming
their way through the ravines of the leafy greens in the back of the buzzing icebox.
The buzzing is now beating in regular fifteen-minute intervals and someone
forgot to empty the Tupperware that catches the drip drip dripping of the
frozen vegetables’ condensation now spilling over the lettuce and jam jars cemented
to the shelf by a corn syrup adhesive. Does anyone else notice the difficulty
in prying thrice frozen cubes from their plastic molds? Phenomenon. Like the
coffee grounds in the bottom of the wastebasket after the bag has fought for
two days to hold its ground and maintain original positioning. The poor dear,
it tried its best caved under the pressure. Digressing, the produce it rotting
from the inside out, cats in the cupboard rattling the pots like ding ding
dinging I’m searching for a vowel. What a sick and twisted game show, but I am
home in the haunt where ghosts leave their markings on the doorknobs and Dante
rests on the shelf. Back with the glass half full still hot enough to heat the
silver platter, now that’s what I call optimism. “Life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard
no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying
nothing” quote the past to rectify reality, signifying stresses of the present
not like this hasn’t been done before and more eloquently at that. Back to the
light switch now charred lamps shed better light the room afraid the next crack
from an electric blue flame may ignite the butane air filled from the flick
flick flicking of bic after bic. Speaking of death, cigarette break, calls for repeat
no one calls. Shoes, patio, patio, rug, shoes, forgot the shoes earlier too
much of a rush, kitchen clean hands with watered down dish soap and this time
no microwaving the water the hot is already hot enough and we cannot forget to
pick it from the counter ripened ready to trace back through the way finding
techniques little bread crumbs left at the foot of the dresser and towards the
edge of the architects’ desk. Johnny called just in time to say hello with the
good news before bedtime, lather rinse repeat. Play the stereo radio talk in
the foreground where dust is accumulating on the books’ window. How sad it is
the characters no matter how rounded seldom feel the sunshine or the harsh
winter glaze frosting the corners of the transparency. Backs to the bindings barricade
the light passerbys barely see the ladders chained to brick so helpless. This
is heaven warm and washed, up. Dizzy peering up at rock and plant jutting from
the side of a mountain waiting to one day cover the windowsill tomorrow. The
world is white to what wanderers wonder, busy contemplating the same shit as
before and why when all is pure and innocent and cool that such fire and dark can crowd like curtains.