As that old distinctive smell of homeless man’s balls, urine, dead rats, and rotting garbage fills my nose each morning at 8:52am sharp, I survive merely by holding tight to my favorite aphorism life is but a dream.
Robert Frost cracked his knuckles. The distinctive snapping sensation brought his fingers to life and he dipped his pen in poop ink, ready to begin. Nature’s first green is gold, he wrote with a flourish. He licked the nib of his pen and nodded. The aphorism was the perfect way to begin a poem he hoped would be crammed into the minds of high school freshmen for decades to come. He licked the tip of his pen again, satisfied.
Cindy Capleton stroked his beard, leaving streak marks of peanut butter down the sides of his cheeks, tiger striped-like remnants of an irrevocable hunger. Empty jars lay strewn across the platform as he rose off the ground, like Jesus on the 3rd day, and as he grasped his spear, its bronze tip crackling with intensity, he heard the distinctive snap of thunder rolling in the distance: his entire life had led to this moment. The sky began to darken and unleashed a storm more hellish than the Furies themselves—gales caterwauling fiercely, lightning striking dangerously close, raindrops as hard as titanium. The lord Zeus was approaching. Cindy readjusted his armor, and mumbled an aphorism only a man facing death could possess the strength: “You’re a bad person with an ugly heart, and we don’t give a flying fuck what you think!” He threw is spear into the heart of the storm, and ran straight into the night.
–Cindy Capleton himself