Because the bus stop bench is wet – it’s always wet – I sit on cold concrete thinking: I never pictured this for myself. But I wonder: Did I ever really picture anything at all? Living life looking into puddles just to see enough of space that I raise my head up to see it reflecting. Littered pools bedecked with transient likeness-ess of a “now” I would miss, if I predicted ahead. Maybe I’ve always admired the image, existing with poetic abandon. How irresponsible. I date the beginning of my existence with a shrug over my shoulder, “Sometime When.”
Scooting to my indispensable spot on the back of the bus, my pain iridescent. Subtle and grotesque as the fish scales included in lipstick ingredients, hiding – for me – is essential. The chair is brown and coated in sunlight, despite the quavering vehicle, I manage to fold a piece of paper into the body of a bird and blemish it with this:
Does an egg have eyes?
This soft insanity doesn’t crack, but
Perforates. Bleeds & swells blends, unbeknownst, blinds
What where which came first.
I stir this purple colored bird into the pages of a book I’m reading, to keep track of where I am, or to at least remind me that I’m reading it.
This is the first time a late day – or any day – has reminded me of years passing. In all eager abruptness: A year has vanished. We quantify time, people, places, personalities as “passing” and euphemize death so sweetly and abruptly: HERE TO THERE, THEN TO NOW, DREAMS BREAKING TO humming to blinking to a name so wispily coughed and apologised for. This is to be forgotten.
I lay in this yellow room consumed by how unwelcome I am, and by how intense the trees agree with me. It breaks the invisible line of horizon and lowers itself into other parts of the earth and begs me to close and open my eyes with the breaths of the trees… The breaths of trees…. The breaths of the trees… As they sensibly bend, ballet, pant at the falling of the day.
How portentously gloomy an age this is. I force myself (by any means) to sleep and these dreams: These dreams! They wanted my poetry. Fictitious professors and collectors of words, they aren’t exactly dead, just somehow alive in my head.