We have to get on the motorcycle now. The man driving the motorcycle
motions for me to put my hands around his waist. He's fat and
he smells like food. The motorcycle takes off and I have to press
my face into his shoulder, into the plaid print of his flannel shirt.
I have no idea where we're going.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
The Tragedy of the Quotidian
Reading, writing, shitting.
Close the stall door, pull out the sanitary guard, sit down.
Reading, writing, shitting.
The radio, the paper thrown out of a truck with its headlights on
driving slowly down the street in the dark, the computer screen,
the newstand,the cable news program -- all of these people trying
to tell us what is happening.
Eat, sleep, drive, lock the door.
Close the stall door, pull out the sanitary guard, sit down.
Reading, writing, shitting.
The radio, the paper thrown out of a truck with its headlights on
driving slowly down the street in the dark, the computer screen,
the newstand,the cable news program -- all of these people trying
to tell us what is happening.
Eat, sleep, drive, lock the door.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
1989
Listening to Led Zeppelin on a walkman with four hours of batteries left
somewhere over Central Asia. On our next flight we'll see Everest, off to the
left.
Continental plates drifting and crashing, tidal waves erasing, mangrove forests sinking.
A tiger paddling through brown water.
somewhere over Central Asia. On our next flight we'll see Everest, off to the
left.
Continental plates drifting and crashing, tidal waves erasing, mangrove forests sinking.
A tiger paddling through brown water.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
A Grey Thursday
Freezing in my underpants. Half a bagel uneaten.
The crows outside are waiting for me to give up so that
they can eat my eyeballs. Ocular juice drizzling down their
beaks, matting down their mangy feathers.
It's just breakfast.
The crows outside are waiting for me to give up so that
they can eat my eyeballs. Ocular juice drizzling down their
beaks, matting down their mangy feathers.
It's just breakfast.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Morning Person
Not able to wake up. I keep on losing my glasses in my dreams. My eyelids don't open all the way. Things are too dark and I feel like it's sort of my fault.
But then I'm awake and useless and huge. Hair and skin and a clouded mind. Slightly off balance stepping out of bed. Reaching out to steady myself. The first glimpse into the mirror. That's who I am, still, again, for a little while longer.
But then I'm awake and useless and huge. Hair and skin and a clouded mind. Slightly off balance stepping out of bed. Reaching out to steady myself. The first glimpse into the mirror. That's who I am, still, again, for a little while longer.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Eight and a half hours
Trying to sleep, but beset with completely unauthorized dreams. These things are not supposed to happen. A piece of peanut left lodged in my molar, released by an exploring tongue. An imagined wet, pink theater of improbable activity. The space of the mouth is flipped by flipping the tongue.
It's nothing but taking out the trash. Nothing but the janitorial services of the mind, dressed in grey jumpsuits, handling unacceptable needs. Best not to dwell on these things. Best to let them go. Dreams are meant to be forgotten. That's why we forget them. Except when we don't.
It's nothing but taking out the trash. Nothing but the janitorial services of the mind, dressed in grey jumpsuits, handling unacceptable needs. Best not to dwell on these things. Best to let them go. Dreams are meant to be forgotten. That's why we forget them. Except when we don't.
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