accordians yawning

2004-11-07, 1:56 a.m.

matches in hand, i walk across the threshhold where asphalt gives way to newly rotted redwood planks and rusted metal bolts. somewhere near the middle, i look back and a momentary lapse in concentration makes me feel guilty for even thinking these words. the lack of support is enough to snap me back into this, because i look down at this monstrosity, and i wonder why i ever made it, why i ever put the time into its construction. flecks of dried blood make sputtering patterns on the wood, they remind me of the rainbow colored glues that people used to make designs on shirts with.

i kneel down to feel this one more time, the dried wood, once treated with superfluous care, is wilting and twisting up into writhing snakes caught in a snow drift, the feel is dead, the temperature reveals a lack of excitement in the sub atomic landscapes under my palm. FLASH, you can always go away into a state of a satallite orbit, whirling around with a peculiar smile that people see in the night sky, but its all you will ever be. nobody can love a star because the distance obscures its face, and sonnets will just rot your stomach with abstract ambiguitites. your songs are a fortune tellers specialty; an astrologers notebook.

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i watched the light receeding into the trees, where the dogwoods are bleeding their pigeon blood red leaves onto the ground. one street light, standing awkwardly in the brush, chokes on its own neon note, clears its throat, then proceeds to sing its night time song encased in glass and metal. window reflection shows Chan Marshall in a dry field, with crickets chirping and a staccato wind in the pine trees. rememberence, double-image hallucinations of summer time and the sun is over head. ill push, then i will wait silently for someone else to walk out that sliding door.