I am not a thinker of good thoughts. My thoughts don’t float, or dance, or undulate inordinate intricacies of the feminine dialectic.
My thoughts mostly ooze out my nose or ear or sometimes from the left side corner of my tongue. Sometimes they bounce onto the page, wiggling and scrambling about like puppies running across on linoleum. They are eager, curious, confused, and careen into jumbled piles of chaos. Before long the have all bounced, tugged and slipped over the page, leaving pale claw marks and the occasional turd as a remembrances.
Sometimes they sigh like a melancholy child with a dirty face and tangled hair.
Most of the time though they plop like balls of clay. They clay gradually puddles to reveal little wind-up men with pointed yellow hats and red noses. They all totter away of course, the little wind up men, so that upon reread my thoughts appear to be wads of chewed gum the color of slate stuck to the page to be discarded.