I am waiting for the next thing, whatever that is—bicycle, clock, chicken, meandering stream, elk, elephant, swan—I am waiting for the procession to end, for the wheel to stop spinning, for the indicator to land on one definitive thing, and stay there.
I am waiting for the next thing, some kind of thickening, for water to become wine, clear air to turn to fog. I am waiting for something more, qualitatively more, something palpable.
I am waiting for something less, too, less than a cartoon light bulb going on over my head, less than a plan, less than a ship traveling dark waters by moonlight, less than dreams. I am waiting for something diaphanous, a feather-weight turn of events that tips the scales, sends me riding blindfolded down a slippery chute to land on that bed of flowers or weeds or cow dung that is waiting for me somewhere, waiting for me with a little place card on it, with my name spelled correctly for a change, but it's not the name on my driver's license, it's the name on my soul, and the card isn't made of paper, it's made of destiny.
I am waiting for something to reveal itself, something to bark like a chicken, cluck like a dog, sing like a fish, swim like an eagle, light up like darkness, sink like helium...something to taste. Something to taste.
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