10. Where's Judy?

I wonder where Judy is. I miss her so much. I love her. My heart races.

I am in love with her. So there. The dog’s dead, the cat’s out of the bag, and I’m probably going to burn in Hell for the rest of eternity for saying that, but I can’t hide from it any longer. Like Death, the truth of it’s been following, shadowing and, now, finally catching up with me.

I’m looking (damn that dog to hell!)
but I cannot find Sleep. She keeps stealing ahead of me
slippingslippingslipping – like Time –
into the future.
No comfort in the darkness (of the here)

and the silence (bar the dog)

of the now.

,

 .

Had a date with Death last week. I was stood up. You’d think I’d be happy. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Mixed emotions. Something like that. Probably got my dates mixed up.

.

Rustling whispers outside the window: wind and leaves talking to each other. Shooting the breeze.

Trees.

.

Everything that’s made of wood was once a tree

don’t get the wrong idea ain’t nothin’ free

when you’re laid to rest they weep

when you’re buried six feet deep

you’re not really buried in a coffin

you’re buried in a tree.

.

Here I am, putting trusty fountain-pen to paper. And where does paper come from? Wood. Right. Instead of lying in a tree, I’m writing on one. On unlined loose sheets, to be precise.
.

Close. But close only counts in horseshoes and grenades.

How close can you get without touching it?

What time is it anyway?

.

Punch fists at the sky and try to give it a black eye and watch it bleed the new colors of a bruise in full bloom.