Procrastination is something I never put off. I relentlessly trade constructively-used time for moments stretched out like caramel, rolled out like dough. Moments so elusive you can hardly get at them. Moments forgotten like cheap drug-store sunglasses left in the rubbery crease of a diner booth.
A swashbuckling silhouette of my Self tells phantom tales in a tongue that gives gold to the language, a tongue that shaves away at my thick demons as if they were ice sculptures.
Daydreams, nightdreams, little tiny miniature nervous breakdowns. Evening settles like scorched iron beneath lithium stars as I eat chicken wings that are so lousy it’s hard to believe this person bothered to open his own restaurant. I dream of oysters and salt-air, and have neither. Somewhere there are promises being made, sappy gloppy promises that (let’s face it) will be ruptured like a swollen tick between forefinger and thumb. I will sit still and dream of escaping the tendonitis of winter.