1. Grab a pillow.
2. Hold pillow longways* and perpendicular to mattress.
3. Wedge pillow between your pillow and your spousal unit’s pillow (or the pillow of whoever** you’re sleeping with, it’s really none of my business) so pillow can maintain its upright position.

That’s right. The secret’s out. In only three easy steps, now you too can have your very own PillowWall™. Just listen to what these satisfied users are saying about PillowWall™:

PillowWall™ saved my marriage. Now, LoveShack’s bothersome snoring goes into the pillow, not into my ear.

I can’t say enough about PillowWall™. The quality of LoveShack’s breath steadily declines throughout the nighttime hours, and PillowWall™ provides an effective defense against the increasingly noxious odors emanating from his mouth.

OK, so these are both testimonials from me, but that stands to reason, considering I just invented PillowWall™ a couple of hours ago. I am currently its only user. But in all seriousness, you should really try PillowWall™. It’s free. It’s easy to build. And it could revolutionize the way you sleep. Just listen to what this woman had to say about it:

Maybe I was simply super tired and loopy after my strange and wonderful journey home last night, but I have to say that when falling asleep with my head next to PillowWall™, I had the sensation of being inside a small, protected space, like a voting booth. As I drifted off to a land of dreamy goodness — without the sound of LoveShack’s snoring to distract me — I imagined myself punching a ballot card, successfully ripping off hanging chads and generally making the world a better place. Thank you, PillowWall™. Thank you.

Yes, that was me again. Like I said, someone else will have to try PillowWall™ before there will be testimonials from anyone other than me. So just try the damn thing already, wouldya?

* * *
Notes

*Not a real word, and I don’t care.

**Or should that be “of whomever”? Dunno.

I don’t remember a time in my life when I could look at an El Camino and not immediately think of my father.

::

I have the hands of a 77-year-old man. That is to say, I have my father’s hands. And by that I don’t mean hands that are similar to his, I mean his actual hands. Or at least the ones I imagine he would have if he were still alive. It’s like they started aging at a rapid pace the day he died so I would always carry part of him with me.

::

Write a poem that lies about what I will be like when I am old.

::

All the thes at the ends of Bukowski’s poetry lines make his right margin look like the fringy edge of paper pulled from a spiral notebook.

::

weaning

::

ICE TELEPHONE

::

I just ran over dog-ghost.

::

If you write as if you are a writer, you’re self-conscious. If you write as if you aren’t one, you’re disingenuous.

::

These trees are missing their arms.

::

And that was the moment the thought-ghost spirited away all my good ideas.

::

Things my mother used to say: hooter. fiddle-fart around. It will never be noticed on a galloping horse. To each his own, that’s what the old maid said when she kissed the cow.

::

I want what I want, and I will hold my breath until I get it.

I ran over dog-ghost on the way to work this morning. I’m not kidding. When I got to the exact spot in the road where I saw dog-ghost Friday evening, something got caught up under the tires on the left side of my car.

Gadunkadunk was the sound this thing made.

But there wasn’t anything in the road for me to run over. No twigs, no rocks. Certainly no animals, either alive or in visible ghost form. The road was all clear, until that gadunkadunk, which came out of nowhere — some unseeable thing dashing from the median to make its way under my tires.

I told my good friend KIA about it when I got to work, and he wonders if now I will see ghost of dog-ghost on my way home tonight.

I really hope that’s not the case. And I hope I don’t run over ghost of dog-ghost tomorrow morning on my way in, then see ghost of ghost of dog-ghost tomorrow on my way home …

(This situation could get pretty ridiculous pretty fast, and I sure don’t want to be forced to find a new route to and from work. I can’t be bothered with alternate routes right now, not even for dog-ghost and all his ghosts.)

I crave the consistency more than the flavor. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a flavor preference: Chocolate, of course. I love chocolate pudding when it’s balanced on a spoon — cold, firm but yielding, the color of an old book cover. I’ve never been able to make my own pudding correctly, and the last time I tried, I inadvertently left the burner on after my failed attempt, then laid the burner cover back on the burner and went to bed. Could have burned the house down. It wasn’t my house — I was just renting a room in this weird family’s suburban home, but still. Burning the place down would have been a bad thing to do.

I’ve always wondered why I can’t get pudding to do its pudding thing when I make it. I stir and stir but it remains liquid, never thickening up like the box says it will.

I just tried to call LoveShack to ask him to bring me some pudding on his way home. I got someone named Bobby instead. Not actual Bobby, but Bobby’s voicemail. I could tell from his voice he’s clearly over the age of 14, which means he has no business going by the name of Bobby. I didn’t think to leave him a message to that effect, but I should have. I don’t know what number I accidentally dialed that landed me in Bobby’s voicemail, otherwise I would call him up again and let him know Bob or Robert or even Rob would be a better name to use.

OK, I got through to LoveShack. Not actual LoveShack but LoveShack’s voicemail. I want you to bring me some pudding and wine, I said. This is the second message I’ve left him. The first was, I want you to bring me some wine. If he takes too long getting home, he might have a pretty extensive list of things for him to acquire. I have a feeling my cravings for foods/beverages that I don’t have in the house won’t be limited to pudding and wine tonight. I still want some good cheese, for instance. I wouldn’t mind a panini sandwich. And some pickles would be nice.

These cravings, of course, are my body’s reaction to the dog-ghost I saw on the way home. I need comfort food after seeing such a thing. It was in the middle of the road. I noticed it in my peripheral vision, a bushy grayness, all disheveled like an old woman’s wig that hadn’t been combed through in ages. At first, I thought it was flat. But as I drove past it, I could have sworn it was three-dimensional. Yet it was also bodiless somehow. I’m not going to say I could have put my hand through it, because putting hands through ghosts is a cliché. I will say it was as if I could see the dark road through it while at the same time seeing it, perfectly still and doglike.

I’ve never seen a ghost, but it makes sense that if I were going to see one, it would be a non-human animal ghost. I feel a stronger connection to non-human animals than to many human animals. And though I did feel a connection to this dog-ghost, running through the list of dogs I’ve had over the years turned up no matches. If this wasn’t the ghost of a dog I once owned, who did this dog-ghost belong to? And why was I seeing it?

Of course, it could have simply been the streetlight casting strange shadows or my eyes playing tricks on me. But I’d rather stick with it being a dog-ghost. I like to imagine that a dog could cling so tightly to his life that he’d stay in the street where he was run over, waiting patiently in the median as cars zoomed by. Waiting for his owner to leash him up, lead him away.

Since losing weight, my face has become all nose. I can’t escape it. From the front, the side, it’s always there, pushing out ever-farther from my face, as if it’s holding some fancy yoga position. So let’s face facts. My nose is a baking potato. My nose is an economy car riding down my face. My nose is an awning. No, I take that back. My nose is actually the boutique whose door has an awning. I could sell lingerie in there or used books. I could become a pimp and house my ladies of the night comfortably in the warm roominess of each nostril. I could parachute with my nose, but there would have to be strings attached. I could use it as a sled. It might come in handy someday in case I need an emergency lifeboat: We have been getting a lot of rain lately. And wind, too. Why didn’t I think to use it as a windbreaker during yesterday’s 90-mile-an-hour gusts? I think there are also oars up there, for the lifeboat, which would explain why I feel all stuffed up. And there is definitely a zipper, for the windbreaker, which explains why my nose is itchy. Have I mentioned my nose would make a great vase? Just don’t put roses in it, or else it might sneeze. My nose is the latest fashion craze. Women have taken to wearing it as a long, lovely pale gown to all the red carpet events. But don’t worry. This does not make my nose turn up its nose at other noses. My nose knows it’s only a matter of time before perceptions shift, and it becomes, once again, merely a nose.