2xl: 2016-01-22

I talk back to myself and at the music and into my cup.

I recite my mortal mantras to the theme songs of 70s and 80s television shows.

I’d fire my scriptwriter if I could ease him out of my skin.

The flesh of a soft bruised plum.

All in the Family, The Jeffersons, Hill Street Blues, Magnum P.I.

Be careful in here.

I can’t remember the best lines from my favorite authors or the name of my favorite paintings, but I can reel off 80s TV theme songs and hum those melodies like a jukebox savant.

Sanford & Son, the Beverly Hillbillies, the A-Team.

I make them all sad.

Hawaii Five-O too, even after I learned about its different lyrics.

(Sorry, Don Ho, but Sammy Davis, Jr. gets my corsage)

It’s 79 at my favorite beach on Maui right now.

I could go to sleep in the snow here and be gone before Sam Malone says goodbye and shuts out the lights.

No one knows my one true name.

A dark shape moves below the ice.

Somewhere a trench vents lavabloodwatersteam.

Diff’rent Strokes, One Day at a Time, Kotter…

(Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back)

But mostly MAS*H and that chopper augering toward the ground and let me tell you, nothing is


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