Dash is sleeping

Dash is sleeping. The cat looks like she's thinking: sitting on the hardwood floor, head up, in the sun as it has filtered through into the dining room. I feel like I'm feeling. The washing machine is rinsing. The dish washer's waiting to be run. How do we fill it so quickly? Dash is sleeping. KC and Vaughn are shopping. Sharma has now been eating her dry food and licking at her water dish. My hands are cold and typing. A knock at the door. It was a Jehova's Witness. "What turns you off about organized religion?" his response when I said "I'm not interested." "I'm letting the cold air in," I answered. "Have a good day," as I closed the door. My hands are colder. The cat is curious. Dash is sleeping upstairs thank goodness. The cat might wonder why I refer to her sometimes by name and sometimes as "the cat." "The cat" is a consequence, mostly, of the kids—she was more often "Sharma" before them. My hands are too cold—what am I anemic? Remember the wind blew the hairs on my shins—and my toes? That could be funny if properly plotted. What couldn't be funny if properly plotted? I get annoyed by distinctions between funny and humorous, comedy and tragedy, as if all drama were Flarf. I forgot what that means. I forgot for a second how my hands are so cold. They're very, very cold. And typing, of course. I feel like I'm feeling. The string trimmer next door might as well be a chopper. Motorcycle or helicopter? Either way is enough to make me forget my hands are so cold, and I was typing about something. Oh, flarf I like as a lowercase term for collage poetry based on search results or spam. Why bother with the specifics? Like when the penis winks its eye. Think of the sun outside. The cat has climbed the love seat to stretch into sleep in the passionate sunbeam. Passive I mean. Dash is sleeping. The string trimmer is singing. The song is one of constant praise. A severe praise like taxidermy. Typing has finally warmed my hands. Birdless on Grove Street, I listen for something more than the washing machine now spinning, the cars whooshing by the front of our house, the grinding engine of that damn string trimmer next door. My feet are freezing on the hardwood floor under the computer desk. Dash is sleeping upstairs. I can't see the cat anymore.