The Good Word of Sprout

Location: Chicago, Illinois, United States

Friday, February 25, 2005

(I think) their shows are good

Though I have only remembered the end of one or two and usually dance foolishly, please visit:


My Imaginary Brother

My brother, he might be rich. He might have dollars coming out of his anus and flush them after his business is done. His toilet paper might be covered in dimes. That would explain the propectors digging up his septic tank.

My brother has six inches on me in the height department, and reaching things is not his problem (To reach things, I use the tiny ladder. I resent the way the people look at me when I use the tiny ladder. I am cute. I juggle). Long and lean, my brother does Pilates. The women in the Pilates video generate his fitness with their churning and burning. A wire-taut human spring, he scoffs at Daisy Fuentes and Mari Windsor because he can do better.

He has a small penis. I saw it when we were little, and I saw it again at his bachelor party while he was pissing. His best man rented a bar, a good bar, and no stripper because that would be unnecessary, as my brother already has all womankind in his employ. He uses his tools of arrogance and phermones, somehow generating fantasies of dominance and erotic role reversal, eyes locked at the moment of penetration, etc.

His wife is an French sculpture who plays a starring role in many of my cornhole fantasies. She has red bras which work on the metric system. I know the metric system: her breasts are exactly two deciliters long.

Everyday he hears suits calling him. He goes to the suit-boutique and buys by the carload. His suits are like human-skins, each crafted by pigmented people who would pay their pennies just to lick his shoes. But he won't allow it.

He is compassionate at Christmastime and coolly vicious in summer's sweltering heat.

In his house, nice, sterile, tasteful, you will find glass and stainless steel.

His head is a Christmas ornament, but he does everything better, perfect for the untroubled man. Thinking of him, I drive myself to abuse clowns and Zoolander to a greater extent.

Friday, February 18, 2005

Those quarter-hours

My favorite time of the day is those intervals of sleep between when I first wake up and when I decide to spend the rest of the day awake. I walk the consciousness line, sometimes controlling and directing my thoughts, and sometimes succumbing to sleep's random effect on them. Sleep is a window to other dimensions.

It would be foolish to ask where these dimensions are or when they occur. They are beyond our conception of space and time. But they have great energy, and a brain is a fine antenna. A brain can do so much that we do not allow. Society believes it knows the universe. Why should we believe otherwise?

There are those who would say that I should just wake up and get on with my day, that I should get to making money, that I shouldn't be a lazy bum. These people are fiercely attached to their beliefs. There is nothing wrong with them. In fact, they are correct. They are correct in their own mind, in their world where they occupy a specific place at a specific time in a specific society. This begs the question, "Do they?"

We know a narrow slice of it.