Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Time II

Sit. The day, the shading of day (sun or moon, dependable), is, suddenly, my day.

The crick and cranks and meanderings and slips and turnarounds become, suddenly internal and sitting here it’s: my neighborhood suddenly, though, with a “?” inserted somewhere near where the mouth (deceptive tunnel, beast hidden before getting in—or out—of the belly) and neck meet (volcanic apparatus) that wants: punctuate that incorporation with a little doubt, would ya?

Mysterious hum-drum, what a disappointment: the porch’s flaked paint is just a place to walk over; the idiot-angle stance of the slim three stories all down and down the slopped street, eh, in passing.

The grass got mown. The heat doesn’t work.

If a place spreads so thin as to be cultureless, how thin can one be to slip in? Oh, and the slipping.

1 Comments:

At 10:16 AM, Blogger name said...

a fave. it goes well. It paints inside the lines.

 

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