Sunday, December 5, 2010

Cold up in your iceberg life (11/28)

What fog do you breathe in your otherlung, what proof are you printing from?

It's big and clean, sparkling, space for the industrial-education annual dance and floor-cleanser demonstration. Your Coke, crying on the table, and your face in the table, and a fourth face, the ugly reflection. Cold props.

You're sitting in the front of this row and there's no one ahead of you, so CHANGE. I want to write history to have at it, but I'm revisiting the past in the present tense.

Hall door like the phone ringing, months on and you're praying. It's Alex, it will be short. It is Alex, strangely, with a new number you can call to lie in bed and talk from the hips. "From what I know of the things I cannot tell you."

Shake it like an eight ball for a different answer. Girl got the feeling, feeling like you've just been where disaster strikes, where there's before and after and then.

But I forgot the day that I got the balls to say
That although sincere, if you were here
I'd spit on you and call you Murphy's Law

- Alex, "Aristotle Stuttered"

No comments:

Post a Comment