Monday, March 5, 2012

Just in case

The felt spot beneath your right shoulder blade. Where you cannot reach like a cat grooming and the snow swirling under the streetlights @ 80, @ 7, picking your wife up from the airport and all that's going on in your mind is a swirl like that, just like that spot just like that itch, fed by the low hum of a soundtrack - the knife, portishead, cypress hill. All the things you cannot reach feel like all the things you can and why do hold on to it. What is the Zen anesthesia moment called when you can feel the earth's irreverent pose, that some blind monkey can rip the rotten bones of what was life and bandaid them across the treachery, across what was landscape and is now something less than the bitterness you feel through your feet. All this is water. All this wasted.