The season broke strange, in late rains and gray afternoons. It’s been spring for a minute here and I haven’t seen a bee. Well into Sunday afternoon here, and all I have to add is the coughing fits between drags. I hack and I spit, not a whit of worry for the plumes and clouds I expel. I cough and clear my throat, the occasional stage-y AHEM dislodged like I was really selling it, like I was on the last legs of my patience trying to flag down a waiter. I’m all tics and props, sipping coffee, squinting off into my invisible mark. Sooner or later I give it an and SCENE. I won’t bother leaving without taking a bow.
The words aren’t exactly gone, but they’ve got a lot going on. Everyone is on a separate trajectory. Everyone is always eager to move on. The world opens up once the empty is out, endless hours, lots of scenery, no expository dialogue to mess with my constant monologue. These drizzled fragments fraught like stars. Skies and sidewalks and fitful trips between screens. Every replicant needs a place to manifest, even talk it out with the counting down. Every ghost needs a shtick.
It’s no secret that I don’t work right. It’s no mystery how I earned my exile. I wear my skin in seethes and legions, it fits and fevers and well worn forms. The world just wore away, and one day this was it. Now it is golds and greens and sinking blue shadows, the moment and the edge. I drowse beneath the library, inked the color of due by stamps and last glance eyes. I lean into the wind chime twilight and the mosquito haunted eaves, the hours always running down. I smoke on sunrise side with the sun going down, clearing my throat to little effect, playing the part. I wait out for nothing but the choking.
No comments:
Post a Comment