untitled

Four desks, no
one, four corners and me.
Not a damn thing else tonight.


by AM Poet, G

Sun, Man

It’s embracing to say, but I get story ideas from dreams. Sometimes. Sometimes the dreams are shit, and sometimes they freak me out. Sometimes, though, I wake up with some crazy idea that I write down right away, then fall back asleep to develop the idea further. Around noon I’m finally up, reading what I’ve written and thinking about how deep into the atmosphere I am right now. So deep I put it all away and eat some oatmeal. I shit, and then I feel like taking a shower, shutting the computer and stripping down naked before getting into the water. I clean myself up and then I feel like a dumb ass because I didn’t go to the gym first. Well, fuck. It’s sunday. I’ll sit around stinking all day, I tell myself. Besides, I got a story to tell. This time it’s about some cult leader who corrupted my whole family and everyone I’ve ever known. I see that he’s shit, and somehow get a hold of him and start smashing his head on the sidewalk while my mother and sister scream. When I finally kill him, all his prophesies come true. The world ends. “The Sun Man,” they called him, and that’s what I called the story that remained locked into a few scribbled lines on the top of a random page in my notebook. And that notebook goes into the backpack with my gym clothes and I slip out the door. Outside I feel like running, but move slowly on down the street towards the gym, thinking about what I’ll do when I get there, deciding not to do much, but rather go on to the library and write the story I dreamt up. I get to the gym and workout fast, not really doing anything besides change back into my street clothes and take off for the library to write. There, I get the notebook out, smile at some girl who walks by my table, and read my notes. The whole thing is crap. I go home to sleep again.