Reheat
“I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.”
(Roethke)
Reheat the coffee. Last night’s coffee. Couldn’t be nearer to dawn unless it was dawn. Taps are already up acting leaky. Toilet tissue’s run out. Tub’s spotted. My skin tells dirty secrets even unbathed by the light of fluorescent fixtures. Our tacky, ghost-cluttered, haunted hut is situated a few feet above ground, a few feet from the street, a few thousand miles from the ocean - but stuck on an island nonetheless - an island I've always thought resembles a frumpy sock or deformed uncut penis. I study its geographical chartings on the wall of a subway station clear-cut with silence and everything within this morning fog’s only visible without sight (all senses, for that matter, for the eyes and the ears have little or nothing to do with impression.) A measureless roaring underground dragon briefly weakly sweeps the black floor under its wires. Soot remains. This tunnel is an artery. These people are blood clots. The sky is a skin, the largest organ. So this morning, for my life, I cannot pin the clamor down - stuck on a mitochondric isle, studying maps and mirrors by the light of misfired neurons.
(Roethke)
Reheat the coffee. Last night’s coffee. Couldn’t be nearer to dawn unless it was dawn. Taps are already up acting leaky. Toilet tissue’s run out. Tub’s spotted. My skin tells dirty secrets even unbathed by the light of fluorescent fixtures. Our tacky, ghost-cluttered, haunted hut is situated a few feet above ground, a few feet from the street, a few thousand miles from the ocean - but stuck on an island nonetheless - an island I've always thought resembles a frumpy sock or deformed uncut penis. I study its geographical chartings on the wall of a subway station clear-cut with silence and everything within this morning fog’s only visible without sight (all senses, for that matter, for the eyes and the ears have little or nothing to do with impression.) A measureless roaring underground dragon briefly weakly sweeps the black floor under its wires. Soot remains. This tunnel is an artery. These people are blood clots. The sky is a skin, the largest organ. So this morning, for my life, I cannot pin the clamor down - stuck on a mitochondric isle, studying maps and mirrors by the light of misfired neurons.