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March 22, 2006

from sleep, number

Justin Sirois

[Ed note -- This is the first section of a larger interactive work. Follow the link at the end to dive into the rest.]

I.

most of your life

opportunities have come to you like automatic doors, butterflied panes of transformative glass that open towards the shopper, not into the vending space of vacant blazer sleeves & distressed Diesel. These portals leave your knees creaking like cracker barrels as they truncate the ankles decimals, dividing long against shaved shins that strut above the hem & carry mechanized women through floors of shoes

opportunities have come & gone

but there’s volumes of dough stacked between your rafters, books of cold hard capital in the shelves of your armpits, rows & rows of sorrowful dollars that are untapped, un-drilled, un-understood. We’re ready to let you access that hidden ore, a smiling grill of ice set in white gold, a spinning wheel or loaded dice rolling out of control. Her sleep number is different from my sleep number, her abacus snore rocks the house to sleep, peels the dream genie off her cartridge, nestles into card stocks & high thread counts. I toss

turn when the market is in weekend recess, I’m a fifty, she’s an eighty something. No, she’s a seventy five. Our speculation, the chicken little of it, rests on the cushion of a robust economy & steadily increasing GDP that avoids a sharp pin of

pitching oil prices during the peek energy months

a spiral of incendiary inflation

rising interest rates coupled with an impending real estate bubble

bear market woes

an impending recession, a dry river

& by river I mean something other than what it meant before, a flowing current running back to its source. I’ll wake in a night terror, shivering next to my husband with the windows like open refrigerators & my purse groans like a kristpy kremed kidney. Are we only miles away from sailing off the edge of the world? We worry about such trends too

(she whispers)

I believe you


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