A Preference for Minor Chords: A Memoir

Oh look! The sunset is just beginning.
It smells like bells and sirens.
The side of beef is swinging in his eyes.
We used to call this dance the Rococo Mushroom.
My God, he has fleas.
Quick, what color is the devil’s red apple?
Think about the consequence.
I would like to dedicate this song to all the truckers out there.
Monday, nothing. Tuesday, nothing. Etc.
You’re holding him too close to the light.
Cinderella. Umbrella. A preference for minor chords.
Let’s get some hot dogs before the game.
My hand hurts. His hand hurts.
Kiss me in the shadow of the antacid-pink clouds.
The dog means a lot to him.
He had faith in the persistence of memory.
I’m talking dollars and cents here.
The signal light is busted.
How do you imagine all that newsprint on his penis?
I become enchanted with things.
Oh look! He’s throwing up his hot dogs.
Four words: wind; rain; sky; wallet.
Scratch that, bone.
Are those sirens? Or is that just the radio?
He must gulp the blue water from the skeleton’s glass.
A note. Two more. Etc.
Whatever happened to the music anyway?
His nose has a real flair.
There are no secrets other than the few thousand which keep
          the body trapped inside itself.
Look to the past.
Sometimes a pebble is a better mirror than a stone.
I saw him sleeping on a bed of garlic.
“Sparrows mostly.”
There was always the tendency to wonder, And then?
Nothing.
Call it obsessive if you like. The outcome will be the same.