a year ago today: the horse

there is a man with a bullhorn beneath your window. he has a bullhorn. it’s a fucking bullhorn, and he has it, beneath your window.

it’s a parade. a rowdy parade of god-the-fuck-knows cowboy love, spreading horse droppings across fresh pavement, below your fucking window. “have a gigantic mug of coffee – crank up the stereo, it’s 9:00 saturday morning and there is a parade under your window,” the parade says. with bullhorn and a band. marching marching band belting out “The Horse.”

it’s 9:00 saturday morning and you’re marching marching to the bathroom. must stop the man with the bullhorn. find his address and march beneath his suburban model home while he’s shitting. rodeo his wife. must get more sleep. a little more shitting. more “The Horse.”

return to bed. you are alone. it’s 9:00 saturday morning and you are alone. there is a marching band drawing closer. no one is sleeping next to you. you roll over. hear “The Horse” coming alive, closer. marching band is good. ears perk up. giant mug of coffee. marching band isn’t half-bad. move feet. wiggle toes. good band.

wiggle toes. move feet. move legs. marching band is really good. sit up. wiggle toes. move feet. shake hips. marching band! make smooth move across wood floor, trumpet. dance! walk on toes towards wall. band marching. trumpet passing. room softens, “The Horse” drifts. dancing continues down the street, and you’re bumping your head against the wall. the room where you are alone is a box. a tiny box where dancing fades. the band marches, passes. you are alone in your box room. there is no one else. no big marching band.

it’s 9:00 saturday morning and you are alone in a box. the marching band outside the box is inaudible. you lean against the wall, and look out the window. a horse shits below your window. you cannot smell it, the shit. a horse balloon floats into view, and passes the rattling window of your near-empty box. it looks cold outside. the shit steams. the shit that the horse shits on the pavement below your window steams. it must be cold outside. the shit is steaming. a balloon floats over the shit. and shit steams. steaming shit.

Is a shipping clerk, web designer, and junior at the University of Houston. He is 25 years old, and his website is pompadoured.com.