Dad Me; My and Dead Fishing With.

Froth just out, only bond itself. Our time together was best avoided. Eat the hours. Get alone your shed for hours, Dad.  He's rods to gone. At the lake awake I knew drink, would again. Beers down again as before, curdled flesh as ashes drifting from the shore, vomit. Blurring our eyes couldn't content, got our whiskey to share with the rangers, tipping our hats time and time again to them as we swayed slowly by the boat. Really swaying I groggily would express something to Dad's heart, the pills come out. We had an old row when not with tongue. Saying "literati" once, defiant, finally I launch the boat, putting the truck in reverse. Our old dog was slow. He shivered sacred death, cheers to that. We were afternoon. I was hours. Up row lake, time when memories never it felt all lines and matter were one Whitman something. Very familial, fishing.

The Script on the Backs of My Eyelids

I have noticed recently that the backs of my eyelids are covered in a small script only visible under certain levels of ambient light. Too bright a light, for instance, the rays of an angry summer sun brutally searing the earth as if to remind it of the foolishness of trying to escape the crushing gravity of its bulk by cowardly circling about to postpone the moment of its ultimate capture like the stare of a middle school bully casting palpable heat upon the back of the neck of a small, unathletic boy who accidentally sneezed on him while he was holding his feet doing sit-ups in gym class while they are seated across the room from each other in history class learning the particularities of war atrocities which only inspire the bully to conceive of ever more terrible punishments and for the small boy to imagine every more terrible consequences for his ill-timed nasal ejaculation. At this sort of intensity of light the script on the back of my eyelids becomes washed out and impossible to read as you might well expect. Too dark and the figures are strangled into intangibility. Somewhere in between, say, at the luminosity of a dinner table with two candles burned down to a suitable romantic level and the screen of one iphone covered by a thumb frantically trying to find the best method of opening a bottle of wine without a corkscrew, the texts become imminently readable, although it took me a very long time to realize this because there are very different texts written on the back of each eyelid and so when I previously closed my eyes at just the right level of luminosity the two writings were superimposed upon each other and looked just like the usual closed-eye murk.