All the dang concessions
I’ve had to make
over the years–
they’ve now begun double- and triple-
parking themselves in my corporeal curio cabinet.
I swear I even saw a few quad-park jobs.
Kim constantly tries to reassure me
I’m just a bit on edge, only hallucinating
(from the stress). But am I?
I haven’t felt this lucid in quite a while. In fact,
the last time I even approached this threshold,
Kim said I was “being a bit much”.
Then I tripped over those words
and fell flat on my face–
for five years. I was
absolutely terrified to think
that I may never again catch that
curio cabinet of concessions in my
viewfinder for convenient irony extraction.
The first three years
were a slog, with Kim squeezing my hand
the whole time, way too tight.
My saving grace? Teaching myself
perfect switch-handedness.
Came in handy! Totally worth the $9k.
Tag: Grace
DFM
Enter our eternal and infernal friend,
Deflatermouse–
careful about the point he makes when scrimmying across the kitchen floor in a fairly affluent suburban subdivision that would otherwise say it’s been treated well by the rodents and mongrels of the world. Only DFM (as the folks in the know have referred to him) gets a pass–you know, for sheer name novelty that has nothing to do with his aptitude for deflating himself (or others) and everything to do with occupying the (then) hovel of Fretful Fred, a beleaguered baritone at the peak of malaise and circumspection.
“Well hello there, little fella.” DFM pauses, startled to be addressed in such a cordial way.
“You’re the first visitor I’ve had in quite some time!” DFM appears to be intently listening to Fred, if only to take in the sonorous quality of his voice.
“Take a load off, friend! I don’t have much of anything to offer, but I’m sure you’re fairly adept at fending for yourself at this point.” DFM then immediately proceeds to scrimmy away, marking the exact moment in which his fabled moniker first graced Fred’s consciousness.
Fretful Fred considers himself a bit of a wordsmith, in addition to his accomplishments of the stage and screen. It took about two to three seconds to formulate the nickname, during which time there were numerous cognitive connections taking place, not at all dissimilar to the series of adjustments that a world-class athlete must make while performing the repetitive tasks that put them in that spotlight in the first place.
Our tiny rodent companion lit the fuse that led to a lightning-quick series of self-deprecating blasts. Every moment neglecting my life’s passions seems to just fuel the bonfire of self-hindrance, perpetuating a “woe is me” mentality that only spirals as the moments compile. My pesky new pal graced me with his presence at the intersection of doubt and fear, giving me the semblance of camaraderie, no matter how fleeting. But, just as all moments ever experienced by we, the mortal folk charged with hoisting the weight of the cosmos (whether or not weight is an accurate measurement), our fledgling friendship seems to have vanished as suddenly as it appeared.
“You’re a real Deflatermouse, you know that?” Freddy knew that an intellectual connection couldn’t be made, now or ever, but he continued to consciously deny the existence of a language barrier for the sake of infusing any wonder into his underwhelming existence.
WHARVED 