Tag Archives: victor farnsworth

Jeni

She liked getting stoned and cracking each other’s toes

She loved Danny Devito, who she drew onto an egg and then cried the day she had to eat him

When she blinked one eye stayed down longer than the other

She had done too much acid

She thought clouds were grabbable, like cotton candy, until she was fourteen

She sang “so fresh and so clean” in the shower

She defended the homeless so long as they didn’t talk too much

She didn’t like anyone who talked too much

She was a kid except when she wanted to be mean

Then she was a practiced adult

She is alive, somewhere, and when she blinks one eye stays down longer

When she showers, she sings

And as I write this she dreams of eating the clouds from the sky

MODERN LIVING

The endless shift of phases
Modes of moods
At one moment seeing beauty in all things
The mold, moles and smog of the world
The ideographic pattern of the oil mixing with the once-clear water
The brilliant coaxing fire consuming someone’s childhood home
Like black ants ravishing a fallen ice cream sandwich
And then later
Who knows when?
Or why?
Unable to find a molecule of reassurance
Not in the tin voice of my mother’s advice
The oversized bones of a young white lab
Or best rant Chayefsky ever wrote
Nothing
Hopeless
By what means is this switch flipped?
One moment becomes that trapped grain of sand
That develops into a pearl of choking disdain and endwise forethought
A great masher bargained for by the loudest of the children
Adored, embraced as gospel and, yes, forgotten
Then
Once again
All is right inside and out
Simply a moment passed
As fickle as an infant’s attention in a crowd
The real human condition
That some might call bipolar disorder
That I would call modern living

IN THE WORDS OF VICTOR FARNSWORTH

Rainy Days

It better stop raining soon. This is getting out of hand. It started on St. Patrick’s day. Twenty weeks later, it hasn’t stopped. This is like Vietnam, except there’s nothing to do. I don’t have my buddy’s brains in my lap or anything, it’s not like that, but it is still a type of warfare. It’s an internal conflict. Both sides are on break waiting for the rain to stop, using only propaganda to fight for the cause. Every morning is a continuation of this dreary, drowsy experiment. I’m becoming like a vampire with the flu. Like Letterman delivering jokes that he knows are trash, content with mediocrity since his surgery. Never seeing the sun and never willing to do anything more than eat cereal out of the box and watch the rain. I have the cereal because my mother is crazy and she has a problem. She sends me packages. It’s been going on for years. It’s either cereal or barbeque sauce or the latest Disney release, filling my walk-in closet. It used to make me angry but now Honey Nut Cheerios are keeping me alive. The mail stopped once the water started creeping up the buildings. It’s like this everywhere. TV stopped a few days ago. I’ve seen the Lion King more times than I care to estimate. I keep picturing my cigarettes inside of the truck, but since I never got my back window fixed they’re ruined. I barely even want them anymore. If I’d kept my setup from my trip to Long Boat Key, I could be snorkeling all over the place seeing how interesting things look submerged as opposed to not-submerged. Treasure hunting, that type of thing. There probably aren’t any cigarettes anywhere by now. Most people left a long time ago. Many that stayed starved or sunk and bobbed. For a while I was talking, or I guess screaming, with this girl across the street on the second floor, but one day she wasn’t there anymore. I guess she left too. All I do now is sit on my balcony and watch the Abercorn Street River. Like the fool who ruled the abandoned city. I watch the rain drops kurplunk, kurplunk, kurplunk, and think about nothing at all.

I hope it never stops.


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