the art of refraction

the art of refraction

The go between of it. The scratching on the wall. David in his PJs. Searching for the cat with the green like flashlight eyes. Over in the peace of mind, building a dark tower. Celebrate it to displace it. Celebrate it to enlighten it.

Gone the goneness of it. Everything is passing by. I am on the patio with drinks. It is most agreeable. There is atmosphere. It is time to not get so oh I have to go to work again tomorrow blues about it all.

Boxes. Paper bags. Wind machine. Blown dry leaves. Bone marrow. The heart of what the business is. If it only could mean something. Nothing else will hold it in its envelope. Grass. Red winged blackbirds going at the enemy. Dark tower of power.

A gross of the finest wine. In the bucket. There is no need to look down your nose today. Everything is up for grabs. Kathy has spirits in the cupboard. Jim is playing his guitar. It’s his super power after all. It’s her’s too. There is no need for indentities to be secret any longer. There are no photographers that will be paid for that shot any more.

Everybody has to make a living until dad gets home.

Drop in center. Symbols now bereft of meaning. Other than ironic. With no horizon. Irony without a gravitas to ground it in. Irony of irony. No center for the spin we’re in. Space that only is absurd. No one looks directly into anything. There’s no time for that. It’s a matter of the sliding scale of vinyl shoes on ice.

Prices will go up again.

Thank god for the staring into afternoons and pretending you have time on your hands. Good acting is reality.

Partly under water.


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