Magazine Drop Off Day pt. 2

Driving around the thick-black fog of thinking, watching cars drive past, a blur of the swarming sunlight and its dazzling colors of time; as I remember when I was sitting in the car, a place to dwell, a shelter with wheels, and memories accumulating around, clouding with their rooms and spaces, windows and phone calls–bringing home to the foreground, bringing eyes to the skull of a face, and it drizzles. It drizzles a short rain, nothing of worry, drops here drops there, drops of collecting money in the hands of business with the fingers of cash registers and credit card receipts. Thick bills held in the palms of the shadows of people, people held hostage to the cocoons of human eating-creatures, too deadly and horrifying to describe, people who have found wings sprout from their shoulder blades; butterflies fulling the physiology of their prophesied musculature motions, children, house, car, pets, asleep with farmyards and mailboxes sprouting from the snores hidden smiles and words waiting formation protruding from their ears. O what it is to fly through rooms and photons, through vibrations, and the eclipse of desire, only to unzip the heart, pry out a wish–burry it in the thick-black soil of earth and let it remain there as small shoots jut from the ground, then another sprout and another, until standing before us, a small sycamore tree–a tree that will grow as large as a house and fill every fiber-sweat of hunger’s thirsty lurk towards reaching lips upon the outer-rim of a glass of reflections–to take one long sip after another, down, down the long corridor of hoped-for-moments and computers with family pictures and the small business and the care for reliable employees. Where I stand and deliver five magazines containing a portrait of todays’ culture with all its colors and sounds, with the implication of people behind the work of their services, without a museum for the covers of the neon-paper to fold up in and rest its contents in the glass containment of its reliable window–where small children slap the glass scaring the fishes out of their restless, twisted night’s peace–as if such a world could be contained in the palm of a tourist and all the facts of its beauty revealed in the transparency of this orb made of commentaries and suggestions, displays, and ideas–a world where advertisements are the teddy bears and the neighbor’s dog is yours, and the smiles we wear are local, and the car we drive is green–alternative education is a norm and there is hardly any reason to complain. As it starts to drizzle skulls of the faces burning with the eyes for home–bringing phone calls and windows, rooms of cloudy or, open-skyed weather, a lack of accumulating moisture, it’s dry, dry–and blue clear as memory’s chlorine faucet water, the shelter without a roof nor ceiling, where cars are the wheels for the homes people go after a day’s length of fading into chairs, staring at screens, reviewing numbers, counting down the minutes and seconds to when–it’s time to pick up the dazzling swarms of sunsets and paste them into the function of purpose’s driven butterfly musculature–to watch them grow up and become their own playgrounds, college, marriage, having kids of their own, whatever makes them happy.


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