Face type October 14, 2009
It’s true what they say but that’s not why they say it or if it is, then it is the saying it that only makes it true for you who repeat it to yourself while you wait for what you think is the metro, but is really something else: Rapid transportation, shuttling between commuting your own sentences against the silence of these still mornings without much to do but rub at the windows bark back at distant dogs and try to remember what names were even before the things they name had a reason to be invented and committing your skin to move through air that rubs you the wrong way, peels something off, grates away whatever resolution the night gave in the long distance graveyards where all the bones laced the earth beneath so your footing was sure and your mind at ease, thinking of music videos and Vincent Price and of nothing at all. Movement collapsed is spelling trouble. I mean, what you are asking of me is total, one hundred percent commitment when all I’ve got left is this tick and this cough or: all I want left over is the scratched floor that shows how the heavy objects moved when the house held something within instead of wind and reflected woodcreak and the calendar dust forms from gravity as the traffic noise bellows against the glass. We ache to growl, inherit a few pieces of grace. Scotch tape becomes our only luxury, and finally all of our shirts are pressed by the bloating bodies they cover. When the ship sinks, it will be breakfast
that saves you, the thought that you cannot possible start your day dead. An equation of sublimation as everything of value searches for surface or swirls down into the gloom and muck.