the thick of wasting time
is a dull fact of air against the face
and you could no more describe it
than it be anything different
than what it is
now we make ourselves at home
words as pets
lick themselves & each other
birds/machines turn off and on
outside, doppler stretching
radios and car engines to
the bend
to work and then home
to work and then home
grey gaps in the transmission
of a day and the hurry of it is -
since you ask -
is that time is turning,
possiblilites are numbered
and counted and like footsteps
there are only so many for a path
and there is only one path
one sequence
what i have just seen through my
window was part of it: two squirrels.
how in minutes from now
i will go to Dale's to bind books
and when i return
i will surely not fill it in here
like a camera's timelapse,
replay this, as if i could -
point is,
there is one path
and what is written is only part of it.
***
a warm gulf air
bulges upon our hills
in middlestate
in a type of limbo
do i chose my move-
ments this afternoon,
the minutes are numbered.
interactions the same.
people are walking
beyond my window view
at angles, two stopmotion behind
trees along a sidewalk
with both hands
grope such a scene
and plunk it down one hunk of
untouchable.
it is a tendency worth a fight.
***
the long way is
the only way
the motor will turn
and the tape will loop, look,
it's on. this is as it was and
how it shall be again
the superhuman
dropped his certainty
and is turning circles
in a cul de sac
world is like this.
flickering images
on the vast pitch.
the tumultuous leaping
in dreams is fed by
this river of shit
is it any other than you dreamed,
is the floor now throwing you and
is the heavy coming down?
***
fly by night
and wrap night around you
like a flapping cape
drunk with stuff
behind words
if ink could be so precious
that each word
fit a bill of certainty
before the lines were set
and if your thoughts and
words were numbered
what would you think about?
what would you say?