Missed Connection (“That Was Some Party”)

Late into the night at Smith’s party, you were drinking something neon green, made with tequila, that wasn’t a margarita. We talked about how you wished you had one of those little umbrellas. It was you, me, Smith, and four others and none of us knew the others because we were still wearing our masquerade costumes. I remember the way we bonded under the intense fear and atmosphere of general distrust of one another as we, one-by-one, met grisly ends in the deadly game of cat and mouse that ensued. If you remember me I’d love to see you again. I was the one with kind of blonde-ish hair that wasn’t murdered by the end of the night.


Missed Connection (“Loam”)

Saw you at Home Depot, price-comparing brands of loam.  I thought it was sexy how you instantly vetted out the inferior brands of loam based on clay-to-silt ratio. You took the last bag, noticed me eyeing you, and offered it to me – an act which belied a generous nature.  I declined (well, I say “declined” – in fact, I backpedaled and slowly made a 90-degree turn into the fixtures aisle in a languid, graceless “moonwalk”).

I noted your license number as you drove away.  For that is what the love-struck do.

I hope we meet again.  Perhaps you will need some cedar chips someday, or a drill bit. Until then, I think only of you. Well, and that other hot girl who was buying a garage-door opener.  But more you than her.

Missed Connection ("Kestrel")

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.