This past Tuesday, or a few weeks ago Friday. Glimpsed you on Congress Street, slowly rotating a kestrel. I was going to suggest you might be more successful with a more sedentary, flightless bird, but my mouth was full of marzipan and I didn’t want you to think I was a mumbler. You were beautiful, then.
You slid a record on the turntable, the soundtrack to Disney’s “The Lion King”, and I was surprised to find that when reversed, the song “Hakuna Matata” was clearly stating: “Art Tatum, a new car”. It made sense, as the last vehicle the jazz pianist was seen driving was a rusting Bentley with missing hubcaps.
I’d been riding cold medicine for days, so I’m not sure it happened. You might be a figment of my imagination. But, extrapolating Descartes, I think you think, therefore I think you are. Though a brick does not think, I think it exists as well, as I was struck by one in a mugging last February, and the pain was very real. Justifying existence makes my head spin. Will you be the one to take a hold of it for me, so I don’t get dizzy?
Delirious responses only.