(no subject)
I found a pencil stub in the schoolyard
and set it on my desk after recess
only to see that there was no class
no bell
no cute girl with blond hair behind me
just the chipped yellow universe
eight years old
that has never stopped surprising me
*
I can't stop dreaming of that pencil
of my lifelong attempt to do that perfect little thing
justice. I need to return to the source and delve, headlong
into writings long overlooked. As if my visions had a destiny.
As if I myself could be Rimbaud or Nerval, had the former never
learned to read, the latter never been conceived. One can only
write so much before learning that the words themselves are watching,
waiting for us to get the joke, understand their humor whatsoever.
It is a balance, and this is something I have known and will know sometime
in the future. Eating and Excreting. I always return to it, yet have felt compelled to drive breakneck
down roads filled with signs of empty tanks. Do I imagine the speeding poles, bored
out drainage ditches? Sometimes you wake up and in a flash see that you are in a car
up on cinder blocks, wrenching the wheel left and right, vroom vroom, while
checkered flags wave on the telly, and you sit there concocting zip codes out of fireflies,
rooted in the soft southern night, sad really, without a single god damned clue.
and set it on my desk after recess
only to see that there was no class
no bell
no cute girl with blond hair behind me
just the chipped yellow universe
eight years old
that has never stopped surprising me
*
I can't stop dreaming of that pencil
of my lifelong attempt to do that perfect little thing
justice. I need to return to the source and delve, headlong
into writings long overlooked. As if my visions had a destiny.
As if I myself could be Rimbaud or Nerval, had the former never
learned to read, the latter never been conceived. One can only
write so much before learning that the words themselves are watching,
waiting for us to get the joke, understand their humor whatsoever.
It is a balance, and this is something I have known and will know sometime
in the future. Eating and Excreting. I always return to it, yet have felt compelled to drive breakneck
down roads filled with signs of empty tanks. Do I imagine the speeding poles, bored
out drainage ditches? Sometimes you wake up and in a flash see that you are in a car
up on cinder blocks, wrenching the wheel left and right, vroom vroom, while
checkered flags wave on the telly, and you sit there concocting zip codes out of fireflies,
rooted in the soft southern night, sad really, without a single god damned clue.