VICELAND AD#5

My friends give me places to put things. Time to wear, to give, to relish in and waste. The delicate rumble of a forth never back. We hide in 2-dimenional thoughts. That slippery sill we spend flimsy moments on, shadowed in luck’s garb, still spins lacquered sunshine helix upon helix like a bent axle’s last gesture to the hope of infinite motion. “Clasp,” hushed as it sounds through the space between the door and its jamb. “We are not even fucking close to being ‘serene’ with these spots of noticing. Remember when the closet was just somewhere to tremble in?” Some places get put away, some return unannounced into the natural struggle of things. Some spend decades AWOL only to get shoved back into existence by a stray clod of memory come unloosed at just the wrong seafaring hour. To be riled by what time has taken for good (or worse) is the nonsense of sleeplessness. Cheat. Stow. Look slightly to the side instead of back or ahead. We are only what surrounds us, what keeps us lucky in or out of love, again and again, even if death’s path is less dusty and ill-lit for now. My friends give me spaces to put myself; but I keep erasing the outline, the shapes and shadings, and instead draw fifteen-sided mirages of where space loses its form and spreads like plague to span a lofty, “Where were you when I loved you more than toast but less than a glue gun?” I will not slice a banana, unpeeled, into tiny pieces and forget I ever knew your name. Instead, in a punched plunge into spotty tics of past, I think I’ll just start reciting old phone numbers. Ahem. (646) 851–0347…