Inside a Restaurant Aquarium
Watching children eat, the aging turtle dreamt of his woodland far across Pacific winds, of his youthful shell, from which he’d poke his head to eat his mother’s foods, to discuss future plans that would not manifest.
He rightly assumed that there was nothing more frightening than having his words translated to another tongue, being unaware what the connotation might become.
The kids picked him.
Zuo Zhizang was found on the side of the road with two large holes in his back.
I prefer to see a penis before it goes into my mouth, but that almost never happens.
On Monday, Monday morning, she sat in the middle of her couch sipping Colombian coffee, the mildest of Colombian drugs she thought to herself, thinking about Colombia in the news, all the talk about whether or not the U.S. should try to control Colombia’s growth of cocaine, which was interfering with the War on Drugs, which was about as ridiculous as trying to control the growth of coffee beans, she thought, catching herself, getting carried away, one thought after another, now thinking about how she heard that there are a thousand thoughts every blink, wondering now how many times she blinked, how many blinks a day, wondering about sleep when she didn’t blink, did she? or when she dreamed, maybe she blinked, and then when she tried to stop thinking, she heard the voice of her yoga teacher: If a thought comes, acknowledge it but do not engage in dialogue with it; instead concentrate on your breathing and when another thought comes, don’t chase it away but don’t go with it—come back to your breathing, just concentrate on your breathing, which she did, and she got quiet, so quiet that she heard herself blink.