From the Loathsome Autobiography of an Aspiring Hermit

we were all impressed that he had trained himself to overcome the sweating and fits that accompanied riding the elevator to the top floor where all those who helped you get to where you can finally hide the body in peace once you return those calls but really there’s nothing out there but the occasional chirp the grinding

sound of some industry in the distance that we all struggle to identify and some vague concern about retirement which tends to stay asleep except during certain phases of the moon in early autumn before the serious shopping starts and we depart for one day the air goes out and not every part of us is of use and of course those unseen forces you

go on about we peel off and set to one side to admire the fine and final finial detail but then we risk wandering past the border of our little park where we make miniature watercolor landscapes to please the passerby no matter how full of rage or foreboding before retiring once more to the dark closet with the machine that spits out hot air though today even that might be welcome as we question every word

choice and how many bodies we’re inhabiting while we wait for a more immediately impressive one to leap to the lips and be able to sing clear in the narrow streets where we wasted our youth on such games as need not be mentioned here though we remain softly pleased that its secretions were not the same as those found by the famous detective or his brother for that matter

one paper crane on top of a larger one the body’s thresholds

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for no reason a song spills out of me as I recycle this cold grey morning

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walking between autobiography and nonsense I stop on my walk to murder the sunset

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gulping my drink like a man just found in the desert why can’t I be more like George Clooney