Tuesday, April 19, 2011
This story involves someone trying to make the best of things. There is dense cloud cover making Brooklyn look milky and wan. Spotty linings to a lung from lung wear. They could be strands of carpet that were inhaled or some traffic refuse from auto exhaust. The sound of coughing. Then the story changes: a man is sitting at the table when we feel a rumble and see some light flashing and suddenly the dude is rolling on the floor because he's on fire, or his shirt is, he's upset with his kingdom. "I feel like the dumb fat king of a dead country," he says. These are the words we hear from the next room because he's rolled there. We know what to think of him and we start thinking it like all in one day even. "He's such a cuddle monster," you say, and "this light suits him so well," you add.