By: David Bankson | Posted on: August 2018
A fan buzzes in the ear. Faint clicks around the room come from unidentified sources. I touch the face without thinking about what I’m doing. A cat snores next to the body. It’s 8 in the morning, but with the windows covered it could be 8 at night. The hand holds a blue lighter. Nothing connects.
If music played from the black speaker, those sounds would be drowned out. The fan would blend to a musical hum, the clicks tapping drums. A glass leans against a book. Nobody speaks, except the cat is awake and grooming, grooming, grooming. There is no language to pull upon.
YouTube plays from a smartphone. The lap is heavy from a cat. The lower back pulses pain. deadmau5 pulses a chill tune called “Snowcone” from the black speaker. The mind finds that fitting. A Kindle is almost invisible – gray on a gray table. A bottle of strawberry-flavored water is lukewarm. The leg is numb from being crossed too long. It’s all muted & blending.
Equate pain pills I forgot to close. The way it’s turned is a back to the face. A fan is off, which is odd. The left hand touches a vinyl record case. It feels like plastic cardboard. A box label reminds me of a TV show. The way it leans is connected. A glass of bourbon sweats, set on a table. A robe draped over a cat tower hides a box. Everything is open to remembering.
David Bankson lives in Texas writing more garbage like this. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem, and his poetry and micro-fiction can be found in concis, (b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, et al.