BROKEN: MARCH 18, 2008
by Ken Baumann

Someone is taking meth on the television. The television is on in the living room.
Crying sounds and dramatic music. Someone slaps their arm and sticks a needle
in a brown, bulging vain.

The beach today was bright and quiet. I woke up twice, once to a man voice saying
"I'm gonna make the motherfucker do something, a pushup" and once to the sound
of crying.

I ate in reverse, a sandwhich. The mustard was spicey and came out my mouth, back
on the meat, in between the baguette. We drove backwards on the 405.

The windows facing me are glowing green. Sunlight is peeking over brick walls, the
grass looks sad. Squirrels have abandoned my backyard.

There is a turtle figurine staring at me, it's from New Orleans. It is on the windowsill,
above 86 pages of my novel which have been edited once and will be edited many
more times, maybe someday to completion. I want the turtle to move. I will claim

"I pissed clean" on the television.

Eleven year olds watch 'real life drama' shows like meth addict shows and criminal
investigation shows. Nielsen should provide factual data to back me up.

Horse cup is empty. I refill it, drink the Koolaid. Horse cup is empty.

I looked up from reading, being driven home on the 405, and the other cars were
moving, we were stopped in the left lane. Hazard lights clicked. The driver was
crying. Red hair covered her face. None of that happened. My sandwhich was
finished, wax paper made noise under my feet. The air coditioning spit on me,
something like ice.

Whispering, television seems closer, maybe they moved it to the hallway. Pointed it
into my room. They definitely made it louder to get my attention. Twelve year olds
are complaining about meth and throwing up.

Eleven year old redheads on the 405. iPods play dramatic music.

Meth on the beach, needle pokes up, pierces through my book. Meth is being
talked about positively, "meth doesn't bitch".

This all revolves around driving in reverse. If I can retrace from the beach, before
the beach, I can be better, these 86 pages will be gone and my book will be
published, and meth on the television will now be Housewives of Orange County.
The sandwhich will be back, wrapped in the wax paper, my book will be solid.
Eleven year olds and needles will push away from each other like similiar magnets.
Polar energy will be the answer on Lost. Ratings will shoot through the roof for
Housewives of Orange County and brown bulging vains will hide, or be flattened.