Two halves of the dumptruck on a plate
A knife for spreading
The tub of cream cheese spread
Coffee at the ready
I’m seized with dissatisfaction
At this every morning shit
So
I reach into this swirly-doo opening at chest level
I’m flooded with tumultuous memories of contractors fed into the howling basis of some accursed house
Guess it’s supposed to be mine
And now I’m piling all my beloved things onto a half of a dumptruck
Lamborghini. Fighter jet. Subterranean research and development facility where I train up psychic pitbulls. My collection of CB radio dictionaries. Locus Solus in three different English language translations. Locus Solus in French. That last issue of Vermillion with the weird misprinted letters section. My private army of giant tuxedo-wearing lobsters. My auxiliary private army of giant lobster-wearing tuxedos. A bunch of shirts with the little alligator on the chest. A DVD copy of Genocyber purchased circa 2003.
The other half of the dumptruck goes right on top of the Genocyber DVD
I’m supposed to eat it all, and then, um, well, and then have all these precious things become a Big Deal part of me I guess
But then it gets all fucked up
It’s something about that year 2003
How I wasn’t really eating breakfast that year or something
I’d rush out the door, no time for eating
Or I’d sleep in late, may as well roll it all over to lunch
And then lunch is unfairly burdened
Lunch and breakfast fight and fight and fight
Neither can get the advantage
We cut to a conspiracy of snacks plotting a takeover of the Whole Operation
Dinner’s there, but it’s a historically inaccurate portrayal, the uniform’s all wrong
A pitbull, presumably a psychic, transmits a precision schedule of pets and scratchies and walkies and dietary preferences via direct brainwave induction of my Mind Meats
Now the dumptruck becomes its own thing, has this robot form you can implement if you spend several months moving the parts into place
I’m reaching back into the pantry for a fresh dumptruck
