My dad couldn’t pronounce “Shostakovitch” and my mom couldn’t pronounce “Vietnamese.” It might be rubbing off on me. That’s a horrible combination with the “Charlie Day illiteracy compilation” I watched while thinking about my next creative move, this time musical — no words. Words sometimes get people into arguments and then SEMANTICS! is yelled before a blue rushing gasp of breath something like the young elephant on a Tom and Jerry episode that inhaled profoundly and sucked Tom into his own over-sized mouse trap. This seems like a funny thing to write about with Shostakovitch playing Shostakovitch (that’s how it’s spelled on the record cover) behind and slightly to the right of my angled head. Heading out today? No not today. All my errands are for Thursday when I pick up my fixed phone that I’m sure has now been compromised by the guy or woman who seemed too nice not to look at my vacation photos. Photos from Bangkok night aren’t especially juicy but I’m sure they enjoyed them anyway. Or more so enjoyed knowing that I can’t ever prove their invasion. I shouldn’t complain. The peeping attention proves I’m a rock star again.
ryan meyer art rapid prose poem 1