Dull, Needy and Almost Available


When the dull days are over and the dull say so, we will no longer require separation. Meanwhile, voting has grown redundant.
But this morning the fog rolled in like a new age carpet salesman and gravitated. Lightened up but wouldn’t leave. Artificial sunlight. It can burn you.
I couldn’t seem to keep a grip on the floor. Palpable, but inconsequential. I’m looking for another body. I’m looking. The Air Force Reserve is meanwhile playing in the field across the street. They are
not forceful enough. Neither are they reserved. The air is still awaiting them. I’m told that whipping the coffin is translated as, “A blade of grass is not an echo.”
Three left shoes means, “Evil is always disguised as good, but good can be disguised as either evil or good.”
In school today, the president of terribly small gardens visited my scrunchy back yard briefly before lunch. The treaty will not be signed.
So I visited dull. I smelled dull and it was not as expected. Migraines and knotted knees. A crucifixion waltz of military perfection.
More palpable. Engendering.
When the dull say the day is over, it’s the same one. The same and the same. An arbitrary distraction. Like that means it’s not really over. If you’re doing nothing, how do you know when you’re done?
In school today, three dead in a freak elephant-bus collision is translated as, “Elvis.” In this way, conspiracy theories can be avoided.
The air force increased its attention span and thereby its force. There were several palpabilities. The reserve increased as well.
In school yesterday is translated as, “Anywhere you want to be is heaven.” Heaven is translated as, “Migraines with knotted knee episodes.”
In dull school, the dull learn not to. Eventually it meant that I required separation. Redundancy schools you in the restless trajectories. Just because we’re not necessary doesn’t mean we’re not expected. In heaven tomorrow is translated as “a coffin of grass.” So is birth.
We cannot go on repeating such a great and wondrous distance.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.