Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Discourse on Evening Rituals

Talking to myself in the street I saw the moon over healthy row houses which sort of said to me you look pale and need to eat more. I'm going to try, and take their advice, but roads don't come easy in a place like this. I look down and my hands are like the canvas I prepared two hours back and I can smell oils and solvents locked up in every pore.

Shit! I left the milk out and now I'm walking to a six hour studio with high ceilings for thought way up like you're thinking about some boeing 747 somewhere over the Indian Ocean.

All the while two kids kick an old soccer ball under an old rusted out car and the black bags still caught in trees once held liquor now hold only the wind. At this point I'm looking at those bags and wondering if my skull is far off from their hollow interiors and malleable shells. But again, it's one foot in front of the other, inhale, exhale and soon I'll wake once more, breaking chemical bonds with my cold feet on our colder linoleum floor.

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