LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village

Joe Elliot

It's not out there. It's not out there
to get or strive after. It goes where you go, unobtrusive
as a shadow, only needing to be remembered.
These are the words I said as I walked over the bridge.
I don't know if they are true or where they go
after they leave my mouth or if they have an effect. No,
I'm exaggerating. I'm sitting at a table writing things down
because I'm uncomfortable and want to have something
here with me. I write something and there it is. The part about
more solidity although there's nothing there. Nothing out there
but an idea of otherness to hold on to or not. The sky pales
and at this hour even in the city the birds sing.
There's no other way to put it: they sing. In the spaces
between sliced up pieces of blank index cards
that can't be re-assembled the birds sing. Which would be
a fine ending but then she had to get up and entertain
a cup of coffee. Had to. Two cards: the first, a snow bank,
the way meaning used to be; the second, never dealt