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Prose #10 Days turn brown, then green as the acres of childhood state parks. The aging marks crease my eyes because I am aging with the seconds. The passing of days or the mending of hours isn't a portion of what fleeing thoughts could provide-a plane flight over 14 states in six hours. The constant blare of circus melodies makes life rounded in the off and on of morning-somehow missing the last, missing how I sit and write in plainness. Where is the percussion-a called out mystery into this long continent. This single city is looming on the horizon and I'm fading into the fourth floor haze. Coming and going with people, blending into sketches of earthen colors, it hides our loudness-our individual faults. Tangibles are heavy in the harbor and lead me to the next orbit; enclosed in another country which isn't blue or physical. I had mentioned the former, the plus and minus of believing. But doubts are venom, are arrows in ethereal flesh. Poems aren't enough; writing isn't coarse, isn't emotion leaking on new linoleum. It can make divisions glean, traveling at speeds I had only experienced in the back of ambulances. Nothing is subtle, but listening to records at 45rpm prompts me in reverse (10 months). Spires and steeples delineate causes, causalities. Isn't life a mystery? Writing is excruciating, is sparks near explosives, cleaving thoughts on white counters. Once written and carved, derived with music as a backdrop, the settled stages come to be preferable.
Boston 1999 Index