the time is :

in my work place - my day job space -  i flatten my ass to the seat of the rolly chair, all eyes to stare at the split screen, ears folded in not to be used correctly, sickness in the airplane noise of the office, the artificial air thrumming through my nose holes, some people around here walk faster than others.

it helps to imagine who i am writing to.  i hear a child's cry even though i shouldn't be able to from where i sit - but where does it come from, elevator shaft or chest cavity, now the cries are elongated as if let out of the blowhole end of a balloon. 

a bromeliad on my desk is red, it's smaller yellow flowers now emerging from its alien head. 

the steady rain gives us in here something to talk about.  i simply say, "i like the rain," which causes most to divert their prearranged sentences on the matter but i do, i do like the rain.  as some walk faster than others around here the blur i make is within and it is faster and it is moving like a tuning fork, faster than anything i can see here with my eyes.  in here is vibrato and the stuff for fast cameras, one may imagine the installation of heart music arranged for the traffic of ears.  ears that will listen.  but who hasn't heard the rushing stream or turned from the show when it is clear an affect is being aimed at your head like an obnoxious shotgun.  there is a time to run.  in every direction.

out there the streets are slick and i worry about my body when i am riding in cars days like today.  where is the love.  coming from the parking garage i can stand in borrowed clothes my head in a steam bath of breath.   i am okay to be all in it, cars and pedestrians my eyes can see some of it. these early mornings in line for a raise i am okay with the stairwell by the steam pipe whose painted iron safety gate clangs hard against its rail these early mornings.  the noise awakens every bone 6 flights above and two flights below. these strangers in our building with private lists we can agree the weather is wet.  it is cold.  our steam together floats out into a natural world or hovers in our lobby of marble.

already the trash bins overflow as breakfast of data is eaten, the first wave of a habit of sunlight,  the body turns back to the window and the view of the city. 

four birds arc two hills across the highway, back to the window who can argue it is a view.