From the Rivers to the Ocean

When it's Saturday, and you've just returned home from the market, and your feet are damp, and your eyes are dry and tired, and your to-do list is longer than the hours in the day, and your stomach feels as though you've been doing crunches, but you haven't, because you don't, and when run on-sentences comfort you, when sense doesn't make sense, and when someone somewhere (in the next room) is saying holy shit about something, and your feet are getting colder, and you stop to wonder why your forehead hurts and you realize you're furrowing your brow, and you realize that everything is sort-of slanted, but instead of straightening it you just smile and wonder how things came to be that way, and you have to go to the bathroom but the sink is so dirty that looking at it will make you feel guilty and mad, and now you hear wow from the next room, and you wonder what made that wow, it was a wow of concerned surprise, not happy, and you think to yourself wow, wow, and then you think if you turn wow upside down it's mom and some sort of hallmark card must have done something cute with that sometime, but then instead of wow she's saying holy shit again, and then you think that some awful artist sometime probably made some sort of religious scatology piece and titled it holy shit because that could be art and funny, and you know there's nothing funny about the absence of art created by you, but you still think making nothing is better than making holy shit, and you think that it's funny when people say that clothes with holes in them are to be worn on Sunday, because it's such an old-fashioned joke, and you like old-fashioned jokes, and old-fashioned people, and old-fashions, and if you think all of these things, in this sort of sequence, with a half smile on your face, then that's what it might be like to be me, at least for 10 minutes. And complications are simple when you look at them when you're tired. And then you nap.