goodmanjm

goodmanjm

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I seemed to have gotten off in the wrong trench. I couldn't even here the other squirrels chattering. I just kept going and going. And then it fluttered into my mind. I used to be in love with them, fellow corn nibblers, cuddly cousins. Hello! Hello out and over there!

The sardines bought sardines. Without thumbs, they had trouble opening the miniature cans so they got the tiny robots to do it for them. When the robots laughed, it sounded like the rattle and clank of roller coaster wheels going up up up. What will the future bring?

rainstorm? snack? chasm? snowfield? Siren? Telemachus? belly button? star?

He flipped his lid. The top of his head unbuckled and flipped up and we could see in there, a brain like children wrestling.

sons

The rat has nipples like other mammals. Her sons are called pups. Her truth flows in milk.

There are tiny people who live in the little holes in my telephone receiver, sitting in them like they are dry hot tubs. (I'm talking about the old style receiver you hardly see any more.) One group lives in the holes in the ear end, the other in the holes in the mouth end. They get cranky because it's always dark when the phone is hung up. So, ever once in a while, I take the phone off the hook, face the handset upwards, and put it in the sun. That's why sometimes you get a busy signal when you call even though you know I'm home.

The opened him up like a duffel bag and pulled out the small package from behind his liver. It was covered in white paper and tied with a blue ribbon.

Despite the little girl's entreaties, the hedgehog wasn't interested in eating her shoes, so he said he was fasting.

The last thing he did -- in fact it killed him -- was to drink plaster. I suppose he's rotted away now, but the plaster shape of his gastrointestinal tract remains.

He ate mozzarella cheese on wafers. In his white pajamas. On a cloud. Was he dead? Yes, he was dead.

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writing since 2011 · 218 entries · 215 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Jeff showed up.

9longest streak

215days written

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on this day 14 years ago

Jeff wrote about ground
“Do I really want to be ground up and put on a compost pile when I die, or am I just saying that? Being buried under a rhododendron in the forest is less violent, and the rootlets would do the same, u…”

the words Jeff reaches for

insideheyblueheadsunmouthblacktinypapereatwhitelookingsoundmeanlovestars