Paul was a twisted telephone cord. Whiteness under a layer of fingerprints

 

the wire twisted around the finger.

Paul was on the phone. It sounded like:

 

[911 dispatcher]: Is your Aunt conscious, can she move?

 

[Paul]: I dunno, (yelling & coughing)

 

[911 dispatcher]: Hello? Is anyone there?

Paul was questioning the viability of such a form as a story. Did it have enough hold to keep readers reading? Was repeating enough? Do you really know who you are? Paul was uncertain? As in, present a teaser or an antidote upfront to entice, hold, keep people interested? What if the little comments were the most interesting parts?

 

Perhaps it was not enough? The need for clear narrative laid out, edible? But like everything else? Why post everyday? Why create such schedules? Can long word(k)s sustain themselves on the net? Can creating a pile of less make more? Paul was in the kitchen screaming? Paul was was not? Paul was in his den writing with a pen?

 

“form gathers force?”

 

What is training in writing? reading? A notebook, blue? Fire? the mozzarella sticks in the toaster over? Add whiskey? A husband leaving you? spacing for things unsaid? a dislike of persons who punctuate with excessive question marks? always four lies? sentences as stanzas? Thus spoke Paul? As in to the operator on the telephone?

 

He had a ghostwriter working for him? Coo coo clock in the kitchen? Where were we? To fill in the memories? In sweatpants? A stingray bike? blue? It certainly looked like work? But unpaid? Paul was unrevised? An action of pulling apart? Strings of melting cheese? Ironically that was her job? Is that irony? It was not true anyway?  

Paul was a recorded conversation.

Paul was dialed 911.

Paul was the telephone near the door with the very long cord.

Paul was fly.