I imagine a room with a door opening and slamming shut in lunacy, people popping their silly little heads in and out but upon seeing one another, their respective amorphous identities race away or stay put, greet or stare blankly, some appear to be reading blue lined notebook paper stapled to the wall neatly, one is pissing crudely on a post-it note and another is happily baking
a chicken pot pie, retrieved serene in paisley oven mits.

Another parcel on a shelf looks to be transforming, holograms of course are real these days,
we can even purchase the king of musicians—Elvis himself at a (debatably) offensive price except now it looks like a patron with green and yellow teeth is hanging wires from the back of our suited savior to the effect of a marionette and there is something undoubtedly disturbing about seeing the once dead man brought back alive but demonically so, his movements spasmodic and herky jerky, his head still slumped to his chest as if one line, the most important, was never cast.

Then there is a poem
(we know it is a poem because it is properly labeled "poem" at the top):

songs these days grow old frightfully fast
the moss comes out of my speakers and into my ears
so I start to resemble my father in the rear mirror
grey and green grass protruding out my melon head

before it was sheet music my indisputable
faith in God I could follow the lines almost,

**


Jittery from two cups of coffee and half-a-night’s sleep, he shuts the front door while a breeze walks on through—September’s presence announced most polite. Driving down the narrow road, whatever breakfast was (muffin or eggs) begins to sit heavy in his stomach (such the common effects of coffee) and he has to wonder if his morning’s errand is going to be as productive as imagined, if he’ll even make it to his destination. But one thing seems to work the radio is playing a pleasant tune and his arm hangs lazily out the window, grabbing the wind.

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