(no subject)
I have been here before and I didn't like what I saw. I have been standing on this ledge for too many still mornings, watching the sun push the moon out of the sky. I have stood here for too long, watching the moon shake a fist in the afternoon, still hanging from the noose. I have been here when the sky bowed his head in suprise, when all the world stopped to watch the day slip into night.
I have been here, licking my lips, mixing the chemicals that let people know I live in a photography lab. I have seen the moments when a sigh freezes on your face, framing you, etching you against the dawn. I have been here, wondering who I am in all of this.
This is morning. All the world is vibrating, buzzing, whirlwinding down the street. There are leaves and there is snow. There is sunshine and there is rain and here I am, standing sixty inches with my feet stuffed in galoshes, my cheeks flushed and my lips sporting an unlikely shade of pale. Here I am, my belly filled up with wholeness, grinning the dumbdrunk smile of one who doesn't know.
I am a fixture, permanent rose. A record player round and round. Is there a place for this? Will the police stop me if they find me here? Will all the usuals stop their dining, forks in midair, and watch while I jack-and-the-beanstalk right up through the chimney, higher and higher through the clouds? Can I rise up, even when I'm looking down? This is morning.
I have been here, licking my lips, mixing the chemicals that let people know I live in a photography lab. I have seen the moments when a sigh freezes on your face, framing you, etching you against the dawn. I have been here, wondering who I am in all of this.
This is morning. All the world is vibrating, buzzing, whirlwinding down the street. There are leaves and there is snow. There is sunshine and there is rain and here I am, standing sixty inches with my feet stuffed in galoshes, my cheeks flushed and my lips sporting an unlikely shade of pale. Here I am, my belly filled up with wholeness, grinning the dumbdrunk smile of one who doesn't know.
I am a fixture, permanent rose. A record player round and round. Is there a place for this? Will the police stop me if they find me here? Will all the usuals stop their dining, forks in midair, and watch while I jack-and-the-beanstalk right up through the chimney, higher and higher through the clouds? Can I rise up, even when I'm looking down? This is morning.