Open a moment in which
the possible becomes the intangible,
the defiant...
find the adventure that lurks
in the mirror like a semi-tragedy,
or a dark comedy,
or a genre outside of genre,
a green space, an unreality.
Sink into the plush orange cushions
and unravel - eventually I'm sure you'll
be able to sew the threads back together
and know that the seams will be straight,
it just takes a few tries, sometimes a few more
than you were anticipating when you
first drew the design and mapped your plan.
Give me such contentment -
let's rehearse, so it's possible
(one, uno, un, eins) -
dear, self, no more wars,
especially with the sprinkling system
disseminating information
to the four or five corners of confusion.
A man named Flusser once wrote,
"It is obvious that both types of reading involve
time
– but is it the ‘same’ time?”
What is the time in which our bodies do and don't fit?
If I have 8 mosquito bites, but they are like images,
should I read them along lines instead and
pretend they don't itch?
It's like trying to publish snow -
it will eventually and finally morph
and slip through your fingers,
until next year.
