"Tom and his pot-bellied pig were a definite hit with the students who were learning about the
pitfalls of prejudice..."
I am seeing things that confuse me. I am seeing things that weren't there before... horrific things. All the potato salad... all of it... what have I done? What is happening to me? What has become of my reality? It's days like these that mankind needs to learn how to improve and learn how to drink more. It's like this big parade that just keeps moving in circles. It doesn't proceed down the street, it just revolves and evolves into its own evolution. What has become of my ham? What has become of ham? What is wrong with us these days that we learn to drink more and we forget to talk less? What has become of our evolution? Has it become a big piece of ham? And have I become the man who slices the ham? Am I the cutlet maker? How does it feel to be me? What is happening to me? I have decided that I have most certainly come to the conclusion that these are the days when I become a fig. I have learned to drink more, and I have become the fig. What is it that anyone could want from me when I am a fig? How could I most learn to influence others and use my influence when I am a fig? I can only remain wrapped in leaf, in the pale gray of the skyline. I can be a dot on the horizon and a knob on the door. I can be Dan, and in being Dan, he can be me. We can be him and we can test the machine. We can test the machine until it breaks. Then we can be Dan. He can keep being him too. I wouldn't object, for I am merely a fig.
The walls remain simple. Simple like a vertical glaze standing firm and not allowing influence to influence me. Not allowing the politics to creep, creep, creep like the creeper that they are. Not like the weasel and the wolf who tiptoe into the garden and eat your babies. Not like him and his laugh. His mocking, mocking sonnet. His mocking, mocking eye. He and his cake. Him and his cake. He holds his cake aloft and laughs and reads a sonnet about a wolf and a weasel who eat weasel babies. They plant the shells in the garden and grow them. They grow them like a Dan. They can be Dan also. We can star in the night show.
My transmission wears thin. It wears thin like bargain paper towels. It wears on me like crepe paper covering a naked man who is alone in metal wilderness. I curl like curly paper. Like a small child with scissors. My broadcast is reaching the corner of the forest like a rash... like an allergic reaction to the stove. Like reaching for the stove. Like playing a pipe organ on top of a hill. Like the pied piper of thoughts... I take them away and they die in the river. They drown under heavy notes of Beethoven. I play the note loud and hard. I hit it like a fist. Like a small fist putting keys in my mouth. I am alarmed. I hear the alarm and realize it is me. And I am a fig. And I am Dan.