I hear myself say “shit,” with a drawn out groan when waking up in the morning. Rebirth? Or merely recognizing that the night visions were not reaches into some omnipotent primal mind, but were instead merely what I saw yesterday, under the sun, with their false meaning correlated into the banality of teeth-grinding dreams.
The north-shore-bound train rattles across that one bad joint on the Harbor Bridge outside the window, dung-da-dung-dung-da-dung-dung-da-dung-dung-da-dung. Four cars, eight sets of wheels: a single axle, three doubles, and a single.
[After watching her long eyelashes, seated as she is, side-wise to me, profiled at the front of the bus, I cannot that night close my eyes and see her…]
Why does the potential in life seem to drain ever more quickly here, and there. After an mid-afternoon pause, outside to record sounds. Because other progresses are not made when confronted by the screen. Therefore. Capitulation of any weak progression of thought, it comes to nowhere.
Thinking instead, flat, two dimensional, of the solitary and gape-mouthed death, settling that night into the room of living.
And in the evening, making for bed early with a tinge of migraine, I say, “my third eye has closed.” And seek another sleep in tangled comfort.
