The places we have known do not belong only to the little world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; the memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years. - Marcel Proust

Monday, March 8, 2010

centaur in a labyrinth

lately at work i've been jotting notes onto post its and stuffing them in my pockets. i thought i'd share some.

maybe i just finished a track meet in my mind, backwards, in heels, and didn't even place
maybe why i am averse to communicate
why does a year old used once jar of horseradish frighten me so
like the battery breath of wet tongues?
why can't machismo ruled men learn love to like Mary plastered to the back windows of their waxed,chromed up and out pickup trucks so Albuquerque entrepreneurs wouldn't get rich marrying off Mexican women to lonely American bank mangers?
why do border guards thank me for barbeque?
"the best in my life"
could i walk drunk through mall traffic on a distant future holiday in the absence of environment, nothing to breath, a nod to the cameras before i indict unsuspecting motorists, but its 4 am, now.
a coked out suv driver with a hard-on blasting dee-lite 4am sunday on the way to my apartment complex, could this be the new faction of believers who back me?
kissing roomfuls of showered women wrapped in downy bear towels?
why are all the people i know joining the military? is it possible for the island of Cyprus to be taken solely by those i could call bros?
would i expose myself to scrutiny and be asked to withdraw
while waiting for a pipe cleaner wire of clarity to tie off my situation

1 comment:

  1. i enjoy the opening, the first four lines, the heels, a killer. takes off after the imagination.

    & cyprus