Thursday, March 3, 2011

the optimist

Nothing is distinguished with such a little light. Nothing is recognized in this fretful clutter. Magazines and lit machines, socks and dirt and spiders. Waking up in the dead of night, staggering to find a footing. The dark room shuffled with spark and shadow, the sound of a clock, the soundlessness of empty night. Animals snore and sputter, dense breathings and deep sleep. Find a way by almost touch alone. Find a door and fill another exit, so entranced by ache and residual sleep. Nothing known but the map and the dark.

It takes awhile for my name to find me, waking too early for another day I dread. The morning still dense and dark, the bed still warm and charmed with the logistics of dreams. The coffee sputters and the alarm sounds. I am this wreck, I am this stranger. Somehow landed again in this life. Somehow stranded downstream from this identity, the watch, the wallet, the set of keys. Debts and obligations, scars and just a spattering of blood.

A plastic cup is half full with water, and not an optimist in sight. Sitting upon the cheap shelf, before an avalanche of wasted books. The thick conspiracies of words that I have learned to mistake for language. The dull alphabet and the harsh considerations. I swallow some water, I find some clothes. Lights are switched on, locks are undone. The mirror has its say, as does the hour. Somewhere traffic is waiting, all the colors of plastic and steel. Somewhere out there I will join the world.

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