I feel that I am withering inside. But it’s a beautiful morning, and there is someone talking on the radio. I did not understand what she said. It was garbled. Have a good laugh because it’s the best medicine. What was it that Sartre said about sacks of excrement? Why do some people anglicize their names when they immigrate to America? What are those people trying to hide, to forget, to accomplish? When all is said and done, and that being said, more often than not, you have to start from the start all over again. Life is an accidental tragic comedy (at least I think so).
Darkening clouds have rolled in. Looks like it might rain again. Have a biscuit. There is a guy on the radio singing about lovepainrain. Without money human beings die of starvation. Others starve themselves deliberately to protest their state of affairs. It’s a sickening situation when some mortals cannot face up to the big fear, or the big heat, or the big clock. Others, of course, think that it is all a big joke. Actors rehearse dying on a regular basis. I like onion rings crispy, non-greasy. Actors have a fondness for greasepaint.
For the past two weeks I've been having a recurring thought. That thought is this: that she knocked off her husband. She just couldn’t take it anymore. She was totally disgusted by having to clean him up daily, thrice. The situation had become intolerable. Anyway, he was in failing health and legally blind. No one would suspect anything. Just leave the door ajar and let the icy wintry air into the house. Let him catch his death of cold. Why the hell not? She could still collect. What's going on inside her head right this second? She once said to herself, crossing from the dining table to the kitchen sink, “I never did anything wrong to anyone. Why has God abandoned me, especially now, in my time of need?” I was there, listening. Every now and then she takes a calmative. She'll soon become addicted, missing the sound of her husband’s obnoxious voice calling out for nourishment. Everyone needs a little something to get by. I am sleeping better these days and nights.
The radio has suddenly gone haywire. All I hear is static. I suspect those bastard aliens hovering over the metropolis are enjoying some more antihuman fun, brainwashing the population with radio signals to make them commit foul acts, like the ones they've observed humans doing throughout the millennia. It's time to turn the stupid sound box off.
Silence is sometimes blissful, sometimes frightening.
Who is the real Michael Brandonisio? Even he doesn't know, but you can find some of his poetry and visual work online in such places as Small Po[r]tions, Otoliths, elsewhere and elsewhere. There might even be a piece or two of fiction floating around.
