door

The town is summoning itself, like winter's the dark truth we've been avoiding. I go on a night walk: Hey babe, you looking for weed? No. Good. Three paces later: you lookin' for the hard stuff? A big screen in the half moon shows men wrestling in mud. Nobody's touched pac-man in years. An old friend tells me about falling asleep at the wheel and I think he's talking about consciousness. No, I'm just talking about falling asleep at the wheel. In college this man said: you don't smile much. I imagine you might be kind of ruthless. The man across the street has real home things, a desk, slippers, the paternal glow of a lamp. Where is that thread you keep finding yourself at the end of? What was it you said about love, that proclivities might not be the best course of action. A love story is a story afterall, with structure, climaxes, good and bad endings. My friend taught a class about how any story is like the cat in the hat: there's a situation; an outsider comes in and fucks everything up. This happens repeatedly until something changes. The question is can you put the house back together again. The question is what do you do the next time your parents are gone, and something knocks at the door...