18. Senseless Ceaselss Sentences

Birdsong and blue light: harbingers of a new day dawning.

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Poked head around Dad’s door a few minutes ago to find him conked out on top of his bed fully dressed - not having bothered to shed clothes or shoes or get beneath covers. He was sawing logs to beat the band: jagged Z’s flying from his airholes like sparks. Even now with head submerged in pillows I can’t seem to drown out the drone...
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Which brings me back to where I started: here in bed, an outcast from the Land of Nod, writing in this advanced birthday present, auditorally challenged by an intermittent ticking and/or clicking (and often the ragged barking of a dog) that may or may not exist.

Trying to

Time  turns  to Trickery  when
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the   Sandman’s  on  Vacation
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Seconds    last    for    Minutes
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Square Hours  lose their Shape

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Even thought writing poetry’s not my thing – any wonder? – the four lines above came out of nowhere flashing across mind’s sky like forked lightning. Wrote themselves. Don’t know what they mean. Not quite a poem, really, I guess, but a promising start nonetheless, even though I’ll more than likely never finish it.
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I have an acute aversion to endings – and a perversion for adorable bottoms. Female ones!
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Stomach, tight as a steel drum, pangs with hunger. Time to check on Dad, so I’ll grab a snack while I’m up. See if he’s all right, that he’s still breathing and all. Sometimes in his sleep, he forgets to breathe, like he’s dead for about a minute, then, suddenly, Autopilot kicks in, and he gasps. It’s a fairly rare condition he’s got, I read in Reader’s Digest, and supposedly not too serious - not life or death anyway – unless you fail to catch your breath. The grumpiness the morning after a breathless night is the only downside, when he’s so irritable and groggy and you know he didn’t catch a wink of sleep and he has to drink coffee all day to stay awake.

Discovered a device online last week, it comes in a little black case and you hook yourself up to some tubes before going to bed. It senses when you fail to breathe and somehow gives you a kind of jump-start.

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There are pages and pages of glowing testimonials from people all over the world. I’d like to get him one for Christmas, but it’s not cheap. Even if I start saving right away, I’d have to ask for my allowance to be doubled. Either that or get a weekend job.
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Anyhow, if he’s asleep, I think I’ll relieve him of a cigarette. I’ve got that funny taste in the back of my throat like an itch that can only be scratched with nicotine. Mikey calls it a nic-fit. If there’s more than ten in the pack, I’ll steal two. If I get caught, I’ll tell him that I’m only trying to lengthen his life and to shutup and go back to sleep.
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God, I wish I could shutup and go back to sleep.
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