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The Loud Shirt He Wears Is A Crime.

 I thought it was all over but I forgot what makes the world go round; I forgot that all they really wanted was  money. Not my soul or some other irreplaceable part of me. So I can type, make spelling mistakes, swear,extravagantly embellish and twist the Queen's English until it's back almost breaks. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hallelujah!

  So my wife is on the phone and this is nothing new, and news to no one. My daughter, Jessie sleeps is the living room which is our bedroom. She sucks on her bright yellow dummy and now and again rolls from her left side to her right, and a few minutes later back on to her left side again. Since I'm talking about backs, mine has a fertile spasm attack every now and then in what I believe is the Thoracic spine. Though to be honest I'm not that sure, it could be my idiot-ex-pat-moaning cunt zone under reguard attack, from the drugs that in this country you must simply say no to. I don't do them anymore but surely their legacy continues. On we go.

  My wife is off the phone and waltzing around like she didn't just spend the last two and half hours chatting up some old priest of her's in Canada. Flies in the kitchen bothering me with their tippy-toed dance steps, their brogue shoes and bluegrass banjo nonsense. Little Luo choir with bells where their eyes should be serenade me and tell me it's bedtime not kerouac 'a clock. But what do they know the golden throated interlopers. I'm tired but that's my business. If there's one thing I hate it's Kenyan accapella groups with visions of grandeur. That and having to have dinner with my boss, her husband and my colleagues, when really what we all really want to do is go home early. Why else do middle school students have exams? 

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