Monday, September 19, 2011

Dimming By The Second

Beach plums maybe? A time in which one notices the color blue, its various hues, and a corresponding interior growth as well, albeit less subject to conversation. Ice cubes on the grass near the picnic table, a dusty pitch residue on my fingers and hands after changing the flat. You leave home and - however long it takes - you learn that you never leave home. I is everywhere.

Asleep early on a weekend, dreaming in a pleasant way of cannibalism, genial demands of one's body. As a child, the witch in Hansel and Gretel was not feared so much as desired in an illicit way. Perhaps all desire is that way? Bound, then, in seams and threads. Once you learn the song, you hear it everywhere - McDonald's, the sea, in the shower, asleep.

Nearly full moon, crickets and cicadas, and the last gasp of traffic before the bridge finally closes. Writing alone as if it were possible, as if there were any other way. He turned the car near where he first fell in love with gasoline rainbows and laughed at the idea that time is only an idea. Irony is a difficult tenor, one I have never quite managed. Indulgence as always prevails.

A hug then, a forgiveness. A moment in which one choked recalling a black and white photograph in which a child could be seen, taking note of the Lord somewhere off to the left. Long walks ever deeper into the symbol. Without some kind of sugar dinner just won't be approachable. I can't forget you, which is a way of saying that the road forward is dimming by the second.

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