Morning Calls.

Morning calls. The stretch of the rubber band strains a bit tighter from where it’s anchored by a nail in the board way back at the dawn of man. It comes my way across all that has occurred before now, only to end up wrapped, tight as a fiddle string, around this cup of coffee I’m pouring myself here in the early kitchen.

In my own way, I try to makes sense of another day, another one of these impossible sets of hours and rules and payments. I cook my oatmeal in the microwave and feed the dogs, give ‘em water, take them out to the yard so they can do their thing. In a minute or two they’ll be barking to come back in. I always thought dogs were kind of tough animals but mine aren’t. It’s disappointing, to be honest. They want the couch and the heat and the endless assurances that come with being jobless and penniless and dumb as hell. They don’t like the outdoors unless they are running at top speed away from me and my family, towards a world that would kill them fast if given half a chance. Ha. They mostly seem brain damaged and goofy, like a couple of fat babies abandoned behind a 7-11.

I haul them out into the dark rain slapping on the stones out back and I know they’ll be barking to come in just as soon as they do their lonesome business.

I guess I love them but it appears to be more complicated than that, too.

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The neighbors are awake early in the morning. Out in the starless dark they start their cars and pickups. I see their silhouettes in their yards, their minty dashboard glows. Looking out the back window I scrub some dishes and make out the outlines of the Tibetan prayer flags I have tied to the maple tree. They’re slapping hard in the wind. I bought them on Amazon but I don’t even know why really. I don’t know anything about Tibet/ and if I’m being truthful, I don’t really care all that much. I’m sure Tibet is epic and the people are all simmering with mystical mountain magic, but whatever. I’m far from all that; I don’t believe I’ve probably ever even laid eyes on a Tibetan person. And if I did, well, they kept it to themselves.

These flags are a some kind of unofficial statement for people like me/ Americans who have lost their goddamn minds stabbing in the dark to be decent/ trying to survive week to week across year after year after year of systemic duress. I ought to be praying for me is what I ought to be doing, sir. I think in some ways my lefty flags are supposed to hint at this unspoken truth that reveals that me and my family are more humanistic than a lot of other people. I paid like $17 to appear to be more socially advanced. But a lot of my neighbors probably just think I’m gay. Or lost.

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