Stuff I write

Calendar when high when low

Two private rainbows over old holes in the garden hose add colour to July on my lawn. A man with a funny Norwegian dialect plays an accordion solo at the annual jazz festival in August. September is the beginning. We grow fond of each other in October. Her mother dies at dawn on the 6th of November. You let me in on the secret about your death wish on Christmas day. In January I’m fat. My dog truly believes she gave birth in February. Non-existing puppies keep their mother awake at night in March. In the middle of April a fictive person called Glenn-Moses allows two monkeys to sleep in my brother’s bed. You don’t congratulate me on my birthday. June does nothing but rain. By July old holes in the garden hose have been patched, leaving it gray behind.
A man with a bald spot on his head, and a funny Norwegian dialect, plays a flute solo at the annual jazz festival in August. A picture of a swan is made with shoelaces and water colours on September 14th. A doctor passes judgement on a foreigner in October. She’s in Spain when I hope she receives my text message on the 6th of November. You’re still alive on Christmas day. January won’t be so bone-crackingly cold if we just sleep closer together. I think things are going to change in February. In March the shelves in my local super market are out of the red wine I usually buy. Drugs make normal people act like monkeys in April. How can I be so stupid to think that things are going to change in May, when June is two hours away, and I just took two giant steps in the wrong direction?

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