I wanted to call it “weird faces about birds,” but only because it sounded good.
I had a late-night-poem up there and I remember it being absolutely fantastic and the only thing I can
is that it was
it was probably shit.
Shapes, colors, and blurry images is what we recall, like infants, what we return to. And we have a momentary lapse where we only care about sex and money, and then we are stardust again, or an eroding pollutant—ornately-decorated fertilization for the terrain, like plastic bags.
Nothing quite satisfies me like hearing other people’s stories. Sedaris reminds me of life and togetherness, but Jesus doesn’t remind me of death, either.