Sunday, November 25, 2007

About Eighteen Minutes Before Three O'clock

About eighteen minutes before three o'clock, one buffets
oneself, properly, against the shock of seeing more than
one quite needs to see by typing: sniping at the brittle edges

of sensation as if crumbling away the crispy parts might prep
and clean a blank, sufficiently untainted shank of consciousness –
to wipe off stray annoying static and nonsensically emphatic

ambiguities: the noise and scratchy perpetuities of mind
which surely can't have any use and yet remain behind –
and fog the forward motion one inclines oneself to think

the thing to do. One was very good at ninth grade typing class –
and now, eons from that remember-when, one finds one is quite
good again – and then: well, alphabetic renderings aside, one

starts the afternoon’s inevitable slide into the estuary of the day:
that brackish part of imminently cracking dark which blurs all
possibility of conjuring another satisfying thing to say: one’s

fingers type, but only barely swipe at anything remotely large.
One might as well be floating on a barge without a captain
into vast uncharted sea. One does this every day, of course:

survives, abrupt, asserts preeminence – odd pop of reawakening
(allegedly) to pecking out new singularities of “me.” One
types as if one couldn't not, which probably is as should be.


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