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