I dreamed of an oscillating fan built to temper and tame near-feral cats. They called the fan The Cat Whisperer. What luck! For I co-habitate with near-feral cats who shit where they please, rob the birds of every song, and carve my furniture to shredded signs of true ownership. I turned on the demo unit and the fan whirred to life. I wanted to believe The Cat Whisperer would work. I wanted to tame that which the wild had first dibs. I wanted to interrupt nature so friggin’ hard.
I am not the kind of man who gives himself over to wanton gushing
regarding the mystical apparatuses of love. Love you, however, I
do. When first I saw you in this blackened mirror, frightened
though I was by your wispy visage and morbid accoutrements, I felt
instantly overcome by an overwhelmingly esteemed and unrelenting
enthrallment. Nevermind my viscera entangled and twisted by such
untoward tumultuous passion; my sole desire herewith is to
patiently await your return. I show you these words tonight and
pray for any type of reciprocation. I pray you won’t leave again.
We. We point. We point a finger. We point a finger at one another. We point a finger at one another while backing away. We point a finger at one another while backing away, hands wagging. We point a finger at one another while backing away, hands wagging, jaws gabbing. We point a finger at one another while backing away, hands wagging, jaws gabbing, until we hit a wall. We point a finger at one another while backing away, hands wagging, jaws gabbing, until we hit a wall, at which point we take that knuckly, pointing finger and shove it as far we can up our cavernous, ghastly nostril, dig around real, real good and proper for a while – policy-making is a process, don’tcha know? – finally yanking those fingertips back from the nasally abyss with a grotesque, slimy prize attached to the tip and now we’re pointing again, this time offering such lovely treasures to the other side – ourselves: a hard-fought/wrought/got gooey, green end result of a hard day’s work.