Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Numb walking through days eight to five and six to ten (or maybe eleven if we leave the light on) and eleven to six in bunches of time like daisies. You can see the details but only if you stare really close, and by that time it's all passed. So we talk of yesterday, instead. Patch our jeans and hang pictures on the walls painted blood red. Slate. Spring green. It's painted cold grey now, but soon the men will come and knock down the walls. There's no need to rush. Take a walk (that always makes a Sunday afternoon go by for me) and have a dumpling at the place on 8th, chat about the neighborhood, and stumble back to the wild-west swinging doors where they greet you with a beer already poured. The park is kind of nice, but then again, with as much change as I have in my pocket I might as well stop by the bookstore.

Maybe it's the weight of the world, but it's probably just the world spinning faster that gives the illusion. We are moving at 700 million miles per hour past some galaxy or another and you're worried about a parking ticket? Shove it in your ass.

Upstairs, sit. Downstairs, upstairs, sit. Downstairs, upstairs, sit. Downstairs, upstairs, sit. Downstairs.

Try as hard as you like. The pen string dick eyes buttons squeeks won't squeek themselves. Damn the alarm clock. Get me my slippers and a cigarette. Everybody get outside, I set the damn house on fire again.


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