Malcolm James Furst
Words, words, wordsArchive for fire
Nine Random Thoughts
One: I wonder if you know what it’s like to be a bear.
Two: I too know a thing or two about opera glasses and the way they distort reality.
Three: I see that you’ve been wearing your mother’s shoes. Honey, it’s okay to wear them around the house, but if you get those heels caught in the walkway outside, they’ll snap, and your mother will Chu you out.
Four: I forego my morning meal in the hope of losing that last four pounds of who I used to be so the world can see me as I really am.
Five: I’m alive with anticipation of your new release. I’m sure this time you’ll get picked up by a major label. Are you sure you don’t want me to call my friend, the one who sells jingles?
Six is the only number less appreciated than four, except in China, where four is poorly regarded.
Seven: I remember my seventh birthday party. I had a stomach virus but wouldn’t let that stop me from eating cake and ice cream until I puked. Of course, even without a stomach virus, I probably would have eaten ’til I puked.
Eight is the number of times I’ve spent more than $100 on dinner for one. Wouldn’t it have been more fun to spend that same amount of dinner for two? Hola, chica! La mujer de mis sueños, where the hell are you?
Nine kinds of regret fill me, but I pull gently on each one until they all come out, then I fold them into neat packets, douse them in kerosene, and light them on fire
Awkward, Pathetic, and Awkwardly Poetic
I feel
like a PC
running Windows 98 with 124 megs of RAM
after someone has clicked on
too many videos
on YouTube.
I can see what I have to do—
finish all these projects—
but working on them all at the same time,
none of them will be finished well,
or soon enough
for your viewing pleasure.
I feel
like a wood stove
that’s been overloaded with
green wood
and there’s so little air circulation
that the flames struggle
to keep the fire burning.
There is so little time
for what inspires me.
And less time
to dream of love
and sex.
I feel
like a drunk
after an all-night bender,
a thirsty drunk,
very thirsty drunk,
who has nothing left but booze,
and who is grateful that
there’s a case of Coor’s light
in the cellar way
so he won’t
have to drink
Tequila.
I feel
like a table
overloaded
with old books
and magazines
that will never be read
which might not collapse
under the weight,
but which might just
sag in the middle
years after
retirement.
Yet,
I’m grateful
that I’m so busy,
so very,
very busy.
If I weren’t,
I might be
lonely,
so very,
very lonely,
and that wouldn’t feel
so hot.
There’s something here.
Isn’t it a wonder? The night is ablaze
with glittering fires so far out in space
that I can’t help but wonder about my place
in this world.
It’s amazing that flames from so far away
put a smile on my face at the end of the day
and if I wish on that first star, I just may
get a girl.
