“I’m going to write tomorrow. I’ll wake up early, you’ll see,”
I told my couch ridden boyfriend whose sight was set on bed.
He lulled his neck like a banana, spilling its peel over a paisley pillow.
His mouth stretched a yawn, a long “sounds good, babe.”
and my alarm sounds like dandelion seeds clinking softly against wind.
Whoever made this ringtone hit SNOOZE on commonsense, I think
as I pile the words NEW CLOCK WEEKEND
on the pad of paper I keep on my nightstand.
Just in case I dream in stories.
Like the one about the earring farm.
The land the farm sat on was neither flat nor hilly.
It was more like a platform of air, of nothingness, really.
There I was plowing a spaceless field for delicate droplets of jewelry.
The sky was knitting a blanket above me.
The clouds were orange as Dreamsicles.
Then suddenly they shifted to storminess.
And then the clouds began to fold around me.
I was tossed into a basket of swirling scenery.
I tussled about like soiled laundry
around and around.
I couldn’t catch my breath,
started to claw my way out,
but my arms were like plucked weeds,
useless, tired without the ground…
WAKE UP. TIME TO GET UP.
(Sweat. Dandelion seeds chime.)
I take mental notes on my slumber.
Just in case I know what it means,
how to de-discombobulate dreams.
No frets, I’m going to write.
I’ll skip breakfast, I say.
Instead, my eye catches the sink, dirty as an unfiltered fish tank,
the drowning dishes call for help and utility.
There’s one fork left in a drawer shy of spoons.
My car door slams shut.
I’m the hellbound bat dipping in and out of lanes.
At a red light, I smear on eyeliner.
Maybe I can jot down a few lines before
“Good morning, everyone.”
There’s a week left until the magazine prints,
so we race like white rabbits,
pit patter on the keyboards
until we fall into a state of dizzy busyness.
The air is a 9 to 5 kind of dry.
Every now and then someone coughs,
or looks out the window to detect rain.
“Weatherman said sunny, mid-70’s.”
“Yup. Hopefully it warms up. I’m slightly cold.”
I have to urinate despite my lack of water.
As I edit, I can hear pounding through the drywall.
Our neighbors work with metal, or rocks they throttle
into the thin borders between us.
I respond to emails from other realms.
Dear so and so,
I am writing to you because I’m interested in your company’s story. I would like to set a time to talk to you, so I can write about how awesome you are.
I will jump through hoops to meet your schedule.
Regards, sincerely, best.
Lengthy, important title
Here, have my cell too.
I’m on Twitter.
Lunch time breeds freedom, the nourishment of words
I’m going to write then.
I sit on a wooden bench with a recycled notebook open on my lap
The lines on the page entice me, whisper secrets in my pen’s ears.
I turn to the first leaf, and breathe in until I can feel my bellybutton.
Where was I again?
My phone rings.
It’s my sister from the other side of Illinois,
the cornstalks, no burbs with freshly renovated parks,
large mall lots, or helicopter parents in Sedans.
She’s away at school for the first time.
She says she’s homesick and needs money.
I talk to her like a mom who knows better,
and I can hear her roll her eyes through the phone.
We strike up a deal,
I’ll send her a pot so she can cook spaghetti.
I bow my head downward to the white space.
“I’m going to write,” are my first lines.
“How about a drink of water, Max?”
asks this silver haired woman to her bulldog.
I look up and watch her pick up her dog,
lean her body against the fountain,
and let him lap from the flowing faucet.
“Now, that’s better, isn’t it?”
The next time I sit down to write,
I juggle raviolis for dinner, gulp coffee
in uncomfortable lumps,
read text messages from people
I’ve ignored throughout the day.
I use the last of my words to explain.
I say the same word over and over.
I try to teach my bird how to talk.
Her feathers ruffle her annoyance;
I tell her not be cheeky.
“Say hello, Khaleesi.
Hello. Hello. Hello.”
I flip on the T.V. and let whatever’s on fill my ears.
The door creaks open, and my boyfriend wipes his feet on WELCOME.
He sniffs the air, asks what’s cooking,
how my day was, if I wrote.
I tell him almost,
I’m going to write tomorrow,
I’ll wake up early, you’ll see.