time's imaginary cut-throat manners
this one, with celery stalk fingers some calamity that raises sighs and buildings with shadows long as islands. i keep thinking about dreams i didn't have. and certainly, when you think of it in the way you think of marching bands or cross-country skiing we can narrow down the feild of vision to the point where only one instant occurs of course on course the way that maps lead us one place and we're always going someplace else. maps are only useful when we'd rather be someplace specific than anywhere else. so, at times, i'm like a statue, carved and molded by uncertain hands or fists clenched with a fragile hierarchy to my life and days, in the way that calendars keep count long after you lose your mental balance and sputter onwards anyway. clocks count without us. and everything becomes like a stern tic-tocking instead of smooth unknown patterns beneath sheets or bulges in shorts, uncasual like we usually live, trying somehow to keep records of our movements and ideas that flutter at night beneath flickering street lights reminding us of all the women everywhere who move up and down streets in high heels, stilletos waiting for john somebodyorother and hoping one night will be better than the year before it. not that we're so very different since we all waste hours on details that account for themselves either way in fashions ranging from classical to cyber-punk (inside jokes and such) a turbulence that comes across as havoc but we can handle, like we've handled every other thing (unmowed grass to unemployment lines) well enough or else we wouldn't even be here. time makes tragedies of us.
2004-07-15 | 9:44 a.m.
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