Feel the Weight, Back Home We'll Sleep Better

i was sitting on the kitchen counter again. it always seems to be attached to historical events. and to wander.

the artillery at the veterans park. old heated paint. prevents the thing from moving the way it used to. the wires are clipped, and their leftovers stand as a witness to their former destructive tendencies. and the new texture ripples and the indents fill with dirt so the paint looks slightly purple instead of white. my legs are too short to reach the feet slots so i set them just above on the bar.

flash storms. makes the air fresher. but then the brakes can lock up, and suddenly your life is flashing before your eyes--> in an asymmetrical kind of way.

cars and trucks: in a hurry to reach their destinations. my mind floats above the traffic. i see things from the aerial. we move diagonally across traffic in beautiful patterns. it's all synchronized. a car goes straight through the green light, the exhaust is a big black plume. i catalog it to memory, and briefly run through the most recent times I've seen black smoke plumes.

at home. kitchen counter calls. and as i flee i count it as a victory==>and to wander. from the aerial i make odd patterns. not the kind you can make sense of. and reggie brings me back to better days, and as i silently thank him, i catalog the place where bike tires and roller blades have made indents in the pavement, and the patterns of the smoothed out surfaces of the sidewalks ahead, and those that have uneven surfaces. each is the mark of the skill or inexperience of its creator. and the old drive in, converted to a dry cleaners conveniently making life that much more efficient and sterile. at home something is waiting.

another plastic bag is stuck in the tree branches. the wind lifts it. some things are just so beautiful it hurts. and today is not the kind of day to acknowledge that.

thoughts are on that night. we drive. you pick that one song. the one by the june spirit. you played it because it has my name in it. know that night is unreplacable. i still smell your new car, and the discussion about how careful you were in picking it out, you wanted to be sure that nothing on the interior was leather. if you only knew how much of my self identity you singlehandedly constructed.

but i still believe in time travel. and the deflated balloon caught in the tree up the street, the one that has been there since valentines day-it believes too.