|
kafka
you're a kafka saint sometimes, wander-boy walking slowly down this midnight road (spring valley) head ducked low: anyone can see that something in you is changing, and a thing happens, happened, we are all just laughing through the hard parts or trying to so what happens when we what happens when we what happens when we don't figure it out don't get it right: we change faster than tides, quicker than quickest sand and sinking is only an excuse to change: adapting to the sound of everything, the new earths sundry colors the living sacrament to bell ringing (hail mary, mother of god and such and on) just pull one leg before the other, turns out you can figure it if you want, put the spreadsheet columsn into understandings, lock them down into your hope chests (with grandmother's pearls) everything we're turning into is one rain away one flash flood warning from falling apart: life is the cusp, the midpoint between here and now, the yesterday eyes that looked at you and made you think the change wouldn't come the archers looked eager enough and so you took the plunge, dropped off (another drop zone junkie in the limelight) and the chute, the chute never opens on time except when teh changes choose you (they always do) that's the order of it, that's the way it happens, not subtle and smooth, but rough and un-endearing (the way teachers barrage children with a series of numbers that baffle them: this is the way of all-smiles parties and come-alongs, come-downs). we're born and suddenly the sun belongs to no one at all, the asks and gets runs thin as gasping furniture (whatever moves you might just be worth the risk) but changing is inevitable. so you're a kafka saint now, precious little ditty locked in his torrid story books (maybe not torrid, but still stories: like everything else) and what you can do, what's in your power is only this walk this one time before you wake and you've changed altogether all changes are like the turning of eager ears: they happen beneath us and all we can do is hope to ride the tide.
2004-05-23 | 4:57 p.m.
0 comments so far
 
|
