Cold sun and music. Afternoon and another brew. A couple more sips of a few more cups of water and beans.
Chapped lips and pillows for teef. A mile is the same as one memory. The generation ticks on towards leadership forgetting some things while making a history out of others.
Fixing words and drafting new ones, transforming prose into books, into a form of something, and the ha; the things that people say. The one’s I’ve written down but have yet to remind them. The things that my fingers for ears pick up as if a rabbit’s antennae on top of an old black and white television.
Brush and shave and back at the desk. Friends gone and one day it will all make sense to them like it does for me.
The sun rise and the alarm that went off for three straight hours. My hands didn’t hesitate to snooze on and on, until boredom kicked in.
Bypassing the lake, and “we could see the lake” I said.
“The lake can wait until next time.”
Pillows once again teef.
Fingers, well fingers still very much the same as ears.
And alone again. Here again. Clean shower and about to have another cup. Day sixty five of the editing process. Remembering what happened. Thinking about the good people, about the lack of communication that creates visions of those, of the bad people.
Smiling and trying to get past tonight when I’m too tired to fix another word. I’m thinking about how difficult growing up is, for everyone that has, ever grown.
A couple more minutes. A couple more phone calls. A couple more of, jeez, I cant believe she did that, that I did that, that everything goes by, so fast.
Crossed legs and fingers for ears, pillows for teef. Bus ride before car ride, and I was upset because I left the camera at home. Walking with hood-up and bag full of notes I wanted to take a picture of this brick building (a church) in downtown Grand Rapids by the public library. It was the end of the business day on Friday night and the sun was setting making my eyes dance with the transparent dark shadow on the wall now that was (to me) a moving picture show of some kind of waving alien’s hand with bricks on fire, orange and purple smoke, fading dust from the big star that never really goes away, it’s just that our side of the world fades from view.
And damn, “that pine” I said. “Now that’s a good looking tree.”
Ha, and pillows for teef, and at night we need to see what’s in front of us. See our friends. See our mind. See our very own setting reflection.
Before the sun goes down we listen to one more song. Drink one more sip. Play one more note. Remember one more thing.
Ha, and fingers for ears, and at night we tend to see each other. We try and see ourselves, and sometimes, we drink to forget, and sleep to, oh just you wait…