Hitherto
She had a modern look
status quo
atypical benign
nothing impressive
but to the willing consumeristic
masses she worshipped alongside
there was no real style to her
She was nothing fresh
except in some vogue-kich way
investments in all the popular name brands
dressed with some sort of elitist agenda
-in all her attempts
she failed to be more than standard issue
I felt no real attraction
(How could anyone,
I wondered)
she was so
average
In her attempts to be hip
We dated for a month
She began stalking me
after a fit of depression
reportedly brought on
when I started
ignoring her phone calls and
dodging her in public
this went on for months
I subscribed to caller ID because of her
I still get weird calls
early in the morning
late at night
curious at the strange listing on the LCD
unable to discern their origin
wanting to call it back to see who it could be
If it is her-
to hear her answer on the other end
so I can respond
‘Aha!’
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Hot outside, cold down here, where I write, where I write my words, words and nonsense, nonsense and words, nonwords, wordsense, I write purely for profit, purely for the profit of my limbic system a thing they sometimes confuse for the soul, I write for the profit of one or two good eyes to chuckle once or twice from what the see, I profit from making someone think once, I profit from giving someone an idea if only briefly and if only for the etch a sketch, I profit from disturbing the uninitiated.
I forget my age when I write, I forget Im a man, I forget Im a human, I am just a device that batters together strange symbols that someone told me is a word, a sentence, a paragraph.
I don't care for rules or oppression, I don't care for the unscrupulous that flock about me or for the places they eat and swim.
I am just another thing this universe shat out as it did all things and one day it will swallow me back up as it does all things and when this happens I will again be gone.
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Scott C. Dragoo
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