The greatest state man can achieve- sleep- was cut short by the
infernal cry that Doug and Burrow’d into my ears. Devon’s alarm once again made
me lose all the fruits of the spirit. “Devon, what time is it?”
“What?” His vacant face reminded me of the dream I never had,
which, by the way, was blue, like the color blue.
“What time is it?”
“What?” I was about to berate him, saying, “can’t you
understand English? I said ‘what time is it?’” Then I realized that I had been
speaking in Spanish.
“I’m sorry Devon.” He conked out like my imagination in this
sentence.
I went to my desk and stared at the blank page that yearned
to be inhabited by a belly-quivering-worthy declamation. Having psyched myself
up, I attempted to write: “He snored like a victimized cow in the hands
of Gary Larson…” The metaphors oozed out like the drunken slobber of a hobo. Maybe
one day I would be able to
command them to descend from my brain to the page like glorious paratroopers in
the midst of victory. I will make the Grinch green with envy, the dying
elephant in the room howl with excitement! I want fame, glory, applause, and
vanilla twinkies!
No comments:
Post a Comment