My name is Charish and I’ve been calling myself a writer for a while now. Where do I get these ideas about other people? I work in a library and I’m constantly observing the interesting people that frequent it. I find that I have nothing better to do. Work? Yeah, I guess I could get around to that. I ride the city buses and there is no shortage of writing material. Something slightly strange is always happening on a bus. Just the other day, I suspected the man in front of me was pretending to be deaf while flirting with a couple of co-ed, sitting across from him.
I have a muse in the form of an eight-year-old me. I realized that I was my most creative when I was eight. I talked to myself, told lies, and tried to stand on my head. I don’t believe life can get anymore creative. I continually refer to my muse so she can remind me that it’s okay to ask a multitude of questions, laugh raucously at my own jokes, bite my nails, and speak in foreign accents. I keep her placated with sugary snacks and rolled up baloney slices. We get along pretty well. Other than writing and feeding my muse, I read when I can and watch plenty of television. You can’t ever read too many books nor watch too much television. This is the God’s honest truth.
He’s really creepy but I want to take him home
Every time we meet, he greets me with a little dance
The kind of dance that reminds us that he’s not all that old
I wait for him to pull coins out of my ear but he just slaps my fanny
Jesus . . . he’s really creepy
Sometimes he tells me how music was and how it turned out to be
Back in the day jazz was boss
And it didn’t cost you nuthin’ to say hello to someone on the street
When he’s done, he’ll shuffle away
When he shuffles away, I miss him
When I miss him, I await his next creepy return
The next little dance and the next slap on the my ass
Damn jazzy old man