Sometimes I contemplate the Universe’s step-brother.
How he likes to sit in his purple chair on Tuesdays at 2pm and listen to jazz rifts, sometimes pretending like he’s a trumpeter in a velvet suit but not the kind who like to wear socks.
He does that, sometimes, that pretending he’s in a velvet suit. But only on even-numbered days. Those seem to be the most fitting to him.
It’s strange, though, because he isn’t one for collaboration. He tends to stick to the depths, to isolate himself away from he rifts and swells of a mountainless campaign. But for some reason, the very vibrations of the sighing cello against the dusty sweeping of the snare send simpers up his spine.
I wonder what he thinks about, while he leans back in his purple chair and taps his foot to the cymbals.
I wonder if he thinks much about the endangered black rhino.
I wonder if he has an opinion on nudism.
I wonder if he’s ever thought about what it would be like to write a book of poetry.
Sometimes I wonder myself what it would be like to be riding a nudist black rhino whilst composing poetry. I wonder if him and I would have much to talk about.
I feel like we would.
I wonder if the Universe’s step-brother would prefer to go by a different title. Maybe one that doesn’t place him in such absolute relation to his non-blood relation who always seems to be stealing the show, when it comes to contemplation on these sorts of streams.
Perhaps I shall never know. The step-brother of the Universe doesn’t talk to me much. He doesn’t talk to many, really, so I am told.
I’m not offended. Sometimes it is the way of the Universe and his family to be cryptic in such manners.
I can’t listen to jazz anymore now without considering the Universe’s step-brother. His velvet suit, catching the flickering fluorescence. His spine wavy with the dustings of the snare. His foot tapping to chunks of cyclic cymbals.
I don’t want to put him into the box of undefined chaos in a dusty mind. So I’ll cease contemplation and leave him to his purple chair.
Peace and blessings,