Weekly feature by: Mike Andrelczyk

It’s like reading Sanskrit in the endzone
seating section of a Cleveland Browns game –
or even reading Sanskrit in a cool mango bower –
it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t
make sense to me. The only thing to know is that you don’t know a thing.
When I turn on the TV there’s the rerun ghost of Johnny Carson
holding my paystub against his forehead. He’s doing his psychic
routine. “A thousand clowns.”
“A thousand clowns” echo through the decades. Where does time go when it goes?
I follow green pinpoint flashes from comet tails with my eyes. Did I even really
see them? And I hold you tight as we take a running leap from the stone building blocks
of ancient Machu Picchu and as we fall toward the jungle, you pull out your iPhone to show me this
video – “Pets Chasing Lasers” – it’s funny cuz the cats can’t grab ahold of the green laserlight. They
think they should be able to grasp the light but it eludes them. There’s nothing left
to hold onto or know. Even you disappear. And then everything
becomes terrifyingly funny.


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