End Times
I am playing hookie from the poets. The huggy poets who I see are hugging and while I miss the touching, I don't miss this feeling of not being sure there is a tomorrow to speak of. It's easier to sit in the almost dark and listen to Tidus while the boy sleeps on the couch, curled up.
Lately, I sweat over almost nothing. Literally, I mean. Can never get the temperature right. There's been a photo of a rusted out gas pipe sitting on my blog for about three years now. It keeps me from adding anything new.
It's a different age. We're so aware of everything. Plastics. Glacial melt. Now this. Our first modern pandemic. That which we don't understand empties airports. And leaves me sitting in the modern quiet with an aching shoulder and a sweaty brow. This town is so moist. Swamp and dewy.
I try to locate myself in this crowd and I can't quite. Everytime I try to open the gate of my indifference, I remember how it is I walked in. Backwards actually. Watching the door.
Lately, I sweat over almost nothing. Literally, I mean. Can never get the temperature right. There's been a photo of a rusted out gas pipe sitting on my blog for about three years now. It keeps me from adding anything new.
It's a different age. We're so aware of everything. Plastics. Glacial melt. Now this. Our first modern pandemic. That which we don't understand empties airports. And leaves me sitting in the modern quiet with an aching shoulder and a sweaty brow. This town is so moist. Swamp and dewy.
I try to locate myself in this crowd and I can't quite. Everytime I try to open the gate of my indifference, I remember how it is I walked in. Backwards actually. Watching the door.
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