2002-09-12 || 4:11 p.m.

|| o neglected yo-yo ||

exercise 2 with blandy

the contents of the third kitchen drawer on the left have organized and are planning a wicked rebellion. there are things called rights. there are things called proper burials. there are things called zombies and vampires and other various members of the undead, and the house keys attached to the hang loose keychain, house keys that have not fit into any of locks of the house since 1987, are pretty sure they qualify. at night they shimmy and chant whatever verses they can come up with, usually warming up with the fine print of eight-year-old coupons for shampoo. they ask for deliverance and salvation and speak loud enough so that the virgen de guadalupe candle placed on top of the refrigerator might hear and shed some waxy tears and offer some spiritual comfort (actually, the virgen de guadalupe candle fell off the refrigerator in a dramatic suicide mediation ((the toaster was bipolar)) and was unceremoniously thrown out with a burnt meat loaf and junk mail some years before. she hears the keys, though, from the wondrous virgen de guadalupe candle receptacle in the sky, and sends the keys righteous messages in spanish that are inaudible to the keys due to the incessant hum of the stodgy refrigerator.).

the loose coins are in a different camp. tired and dirty and hard of hearing, they meet weekly to roll up and count off for possible wrapping. the quarters have been two short of ten dollars for the past three years. the pennies have given up completely, their joints stiff and green from oxidization. they don't mind the drawer so much, but the keys are bossy and promise the latest in video game technology and slot machines in heaven (color animation! music from the latest rock and roll bands!), so the coins clink together in consenting applause at all of the liberation rallies, and keep up hopeful appearances whenever necessary.

the blue comb with the broken tines has heard that the goldfish got a burial. there was even a popsicle stick cross and eulogy. the blue comb whistles sad songs at night, and promises to perform its most soulful rendition of 'swing low, sweet chariot' in the moments leading up to deliverance from drawer purgatory.

the yo-yo in the back sleeps all day and most of the night. the yo-yo hunches up against a corner and curls its frayed string about its body like the tail of a homeless dog. the yo-yo has constant indigestion, a bad case of completely unprovoked vertigo, and spits tiny lightning bolts that leave burn marks on the flowered contact paper. the yo-yo knows deep within its plastic shell that the only way out, the saving strike of the rebellion, is to escape somehow and strangle the house occupants in their sleep with its long neglected string.

but yo-yos are known for their fear of heights, and this will never happen.

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