Foisted

Fade In.

Frosty flourishes of flighty fevered filigree:

I’d like to foist something on you. I’d like you to meet my Id: X this is Id. Id meet X. Now what I’d like you to know first is that Id isn’t your run of the mill shallow draft, Johnny-late-comer bimodal sail/oar galley—No! Id is is the fusta of your dreams (but go ahead and say fuste instead, it’s your choice).

This is what I foist upon you. This is your millstone, your frozen albatross, your peaked chinchilla coat—see if I care what the delegation prattles and saddles you with. Meet my sickly wan friend. I foist him upon you. You do what you must.

To which you say: Yeah. K. How often do I have to feed your Id?

It’s insatiable. Never happy. Contentment is impossible. Feed it your compost scraps and it’ll grow ever larger. Feed it food from your table and see it multiply and slither like The Blob. Feed it voraciously and it’ll become a fossil fuel corporation with a continent-sized fleet of SUV’s. You’re plumb-out of luck, as you were so sweet and so cold a plum to me.

You say: I’m not sure I follow you? What you say? I’m just asking.

You know this cat Shaft was a bad mutha—

You: Shut your mouth!

So I’ve foisted this upon you and now I’m in need of a deus ex mechanized division . . .

You: You should live in my interstices.

You mean in Bardot’s bardo? Her career was over before I was even conceived!

You: That’s enough of this.

(Foisted. Full stop.)

Frost heaves . . .

Fade Out.

What I’m Reading:

Now that I am wiser
I find everything confusing
even when I pronounce it perfectly.
A simple statement like “Void where prohibited”—
How shall I read it?
How shall I think it?
I want to take it as an imperative
and pee on the floor of the public library.

— L. L. Zeiger / “Misconceptions”