The world is not the blur I wish it were. It seems to
sit, stubbornly and ignorantly like a car trying to turn left without a signal,
not moving over far enough to let anybody by.
It's all just that molded vinyl smell that lingers too
large in the dining room. The ceiling will not repair itself. The market will
not bend to my will no matter how much spleen and heart and skeleton force it.
So many things here will not move. True, not as much snow as expected has
fallen but I stare at these stupid, stubborn patches as one month refuses to
yield to the other.
Like a dervish, I whirl and worry, halfway between
vuvuzela triumph and colicky disaster. Ultimately all I do is sit on
cinderblocks and rev my engine and mix my metaphors.
The present lingers and I want the sunlight of the future
to slap me in the face so hard that I forget my name.
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