READ THOREAU, KEROUAC. A few lines, a paragraph. One word, or phrase, at a time, attention splintered. A book's a dream or journey out of here, this gorgeous mundane sludge of wet sky. Look around. Casually follow a train of thought toward a unique abstraction: America. Living as if under siege, hidden by new purchases. Assaulted by food and gadgets, the rain comes like an acid spray to pull our flesh back. Melt like salted slugs. Shed skin or die, reptilian and cold, and then enter a new world in these forming days. Last night a grackle corpse rotted on a Blockbuster sidewalk, its black neck feathers caught in a strong breeze. It lay inert, decomposing in a neon-reflected puddle of light. Curiously, the wind lifted those feathers, revealing a rotting underside as others slammed car doors, blue light shifting off the store door swinging open and closed. Orange sky. Utility transformers. Now sidewalk chalk dissolves in rain. Grass grows thick. I keep looking this black stone square. Hold Waylon while K and Hoa bathe in a tub of herbs, K splashing excited and somewhat deranged by the trauma of this other creature. Walk the morning kitchen with the babe close to me. His eyes are closed and his skin pink. He puts a finger in his mouth. His beautiful lips frown. This is how the world begins, with delicate, desperate sounds. His face wrinkles and reddens as a blast of gas buzzes my fingers. Human embodiment of energy.
Posted by Dale at May 5, 2004 10:54 PM