An Afternoon, Seated (16 Novembre 2005
trappedinmyradio
Posts: 1,189
The sun, cut by a broken wall of Autumn-infested tree branches,
falls onto the naked skin on the unclothed parts of my body.
Compartmentalized portions of life and death - the unpainted picket fence.
Simultaneously, my body, in on inch slivers, feels optimistic and pessimistic.
The flow, and lack, of blood, much like the slats of the bench
on which I sit, is magnified by the warmth of this solar eye.
These are staggered day and night just as they come in reality.
Or, maybe, day to day, like the pulse of the cyclothymic mind.
One up and one down and we haven't yet went under the clothes.
Today, it's a black Ramones' presidential seal shirt with faded,
tight, holes in the knees jeans...to let it breathe - to get it out.
I am neither the meditating Lakota Sioux nor the Zen hopeful, with
downcast eyes, pondering the absence of clarity - static strewn.
Now, the cluttered noise of preoccupation overtakes the moment.
The sun has fallen long ago but I was in it - I was lost.
It's a peck on the shoulder and a jerk around to a cup
rattling with change and a place for, "Help me, just this once, please?"
Somehow, in the face of reality, the lattus-work life and death
seems quite miniscule. I dig in my pocket and drop
in what I have as I walk away - still alive another day.
falls onto the naked skin on the unclothed parts of my body.
Compartmentalized portions of life and death - the unpainted picket fence.
Simultaneously, my body, in on inch slivers, feels optimistic and pessimistic.
The flow, and lack, of blood, much like the slats of the bench
on which I sit, is magnified by the warmth of this solar eye.
These are staggered day and night just as they come in reality.
Or, maybe, day to day, like the pulse of the cyclothymic mind.
One up and one down and we haven't yet went under the clothes.
Today, it's a black Ramones' presidential seal shirt with faded,
tight, holes in the knees jeans...to let it breathe - to get it out.
I am neither the meditating Lakota Sioux nor the Zen hopeful, with
downcast eyes, pondering the absence of clarity - static strewn.
Now, the cluttered noise of preoccupation overtakes the moment.
The sun has fallen long ago but I was in it - I was lost.
It's a peck on the shoulder and a jerk around to a cup
rattling with change and a place for, "Help me, just this once, please?"
Somehow, in the face of reality, the lattus-work life and death
seems quite miniscule. I dig in my pocket and drop
in what I have as I walk away - still alive another day.
I'll dig a tunnel
from my window to yours
from my window to yours
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
such high praise - thank you so very much.
from my window to yours
You're welcome!
I loved the way I could picture someone on the bench and feel the cold and warm spots like she(he?) did and imagine the person sitting so distracted that the time passed unnoticed.
honestly, the fact that you can see that...that makes me very happy...
from my window to yours
i thought about paring it down, but then realized that my personality is in there. and i like that. i have a hard time letting go and myself and letting him enter into anything completely fabricated. i totally get what you're saying though and, definitely, i will continue tinkering with it. thanks.
from my window to yours