bringing a cup of water to my lips in my kitchen (the contents of eternity) by Teddy Duncan

Poems from Sleeper by Nathan Hassall
February 3, 2018
Body of Theseus by Chase Griffin
February 5, 2018

much love to my friend Seth I used his house and his phone to film and he played the drums and we made a great American movie, thank you Seth





/The belief in eternity denotes either or both of the following things, that there is an infinite amount of moments and/or every moment is eternal within itself./


And the initial sickly-thin screen door that must be held open while unlocking/opening the actual wooden front door unintentionally (by me) slightly eases into a metal-slam (easement due to the doors hydraulic cylinder affixed to the top of the door) into its personal doorway which precedes the actual front doorway. Two non-sentient bananas lay on the off-white countertop in my kitchen spooning. I’m thirsty. During the interval of time it takes me to open the cup cabinet, I consider the three viable sources of water in my kitchen. I decide on the refrigerator’s water dispenser, which is unfiltered and unutilized by my family, who buy filtered gallons of water (instead of simply swapping out the refrigerator’s water filter, which either implies a dilapidated water dispenser or indolence on their part((which is a funny remark because I too live in the household and am financially capable of switching the water filter myself))) but, because I have no preference of water source and choose according to accessibility, I normally use the refrigerator’s convenient water. The drink receptacle that I now hold in my hand from the cup cabinet has 4 symmetrical absence of glass indentations which, when met by the kitchens overhead light, produces complex iridescent gleams of crystal color within the translucent glasses manufactured creases, purposelessly. I press the cup against the extraneous tongue of the refrigerator’s built in water administer and languidly stand effeminately distributing my weight to my right leg. I raise the glass towards my mouth and wonder whose home, there was no car in the driveway but my step-mother doesn’t have a car. The tv isn’t blaring some sitcom or hallmark original film so, purely from empirical evidence she isn’t home, she could be sleeping in her room, it was 4 pm but she stays up drinking coffee all night until 5 am on weekdays until my father leaves for work so her sleeping schedule is volatile. I hope/exude some sort of brain ripple that she isn’t home, which makes me feel a twinge of self-depreciation for emitting such a selfish deliberation. She lived here before I moved in, I’m post-her so she maintains an indisputable right, I just despise the sound of a tv’s audio spewing nonsense, such easily compelling nonsense that any human ear is magnetically drawn towards it, with death or success or mystery or funny or something I wish I could do or something I wish I could see or something else that is dumbly intriguing with constant inherent human interest. The glass is approaching my lip. but all forms of entertainment can seem pointless if one ceases to care, some forms just require more from the recipient and the creator yet the recipient will derive less immediately accessible pleasure from this form, the recipient has to attain it rather than be given it, not like a puzzle because the creator and recipient have vastly dissimilar pieces and entire puzzle vistas in this form, entirely different notions/perceptions of the same thing, it isn’t just relating to someone’s experience, that’d be something that’s already present this other form must present something in itself at the hierarchy of the household I hold a notable position as son of the provider, that must be why I feel such a sense of entitlement over my step-mother that I don’t feel bad enough about to force-end. The glass impends nearly grazing my bottom lip tilted upwards to facilitate the pour. I mean when she came out to the back porch that night and tried me and Gina over dirty dishes and a mess in the kitchen dad got pissed as fuck and told her -one fucking plane ticket and it’s back to texas you bitch- her face drooped like a reprimanded dog or a helpless child I had to intervene and told him -please dont speak to her like that- because he was big and she was small and scared and noone should speak to anyone like that and contain such implacable power over them and she came back and apologized which I think he told her to do because although she was a little insolent we did leave a mess and I really hope she’s not home and dad just wanted to keep his promise that he made when I moved in that he wouldn’t say nothing to me about anything which mostly pertained to smoking the ‘weeds’ but he applied it to everything and he held it down and even last year when he watched me get into the back of an undercover cop car handcuffed for possession of alprazolam on a bullshit warrant he was reasonably angry and in disbelief but he followed my instructions to pay my bail with the debit card in my second drawer all he said the following day when I came back after getting out was -i wont tell anybody- and gina looked at me when I told my dad to stop in amazement. The cup is touching my lip. amazement because i yell at her and im bigger and shes been scared and i never even apologize afterwards and when me and gina went to my room i cried and she called me a pussy cause shes seen much much much worse but i wasn’t crying over the occurrence i was crying because i hated dad for yelling like that at my step-mother and making her inferior and i seen myself in his face and his threat and the way he said -bitch- and i wept and let gina think it was over the event itself i couldnt tell her i felt bad or admit my fault and hypocrisy so i let her think i was angry at my step-mother/somehow traumatized and the water from the glass pours into my mouth into my throat into my stomach.

About the Author

teddy duncan jr
/ Allen Ginsberg disciple/ born and raised in Poinciana Florida/