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| televison, donal sutherland, oman, underground press, wordssong lyrics 50 cent that's what's up feat_ g unit guess who's back?, damascus, bill gates, henancius, themes, discography, anime, bob, kink, aesthetics, | The way they made their way down the techno avenue. Which techno in turn may have caused you to recall the drunk, so seemingly ecstatic, and techno also swinging in his steps, a few blocks further. The drunk who staggered but ever so happily, the one who seemed to embody the perfect happiness of a long awaited but now acquired satisfaction. These things you’d seen you’d not allowed entrance to the front of your awareness but kept back like fire-shadows bouncing off the walls of a cave in favor of the sunlight. But now you enter underground. The old woman is greasing her hands with chicken fat dripping from the fire. Her hands do not burn. She rubs the fat over her belly and into her shoulders and a goose alights there. Her husband, reluctantly, gently, shoos it away but a loud flapping helicopter leaves him stunned. It’s the President of the United States. |
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| The trash goes out, the TV gets watched, books get read, and the things that have themes been seen are left to reside on an inner shelf, a back brainfold that will soon be overwritten or discharged. So you won’t know themes why there are geese in your dreams, and you won’t know why the President’s helicopter, headed themes out of town for another stump speech, rises to meet them, why they cross paths, not to mention purposes, heading off in opposite directions. But it will be because precisely when you tried to rest these things appeared in your window, and then disappeared. And all the while you were thinking about a blue sky, about a blank square, a possibility of elsewhere. You may remember that earlier while driving home you’d seen a strange sight: an old woman, heavyset, sagging, lumbering along Lindell Avenue in nothing but her bra, larger than any bra you’d ever imagined, her old husband, bare to the waist, beside her, gripping his shirt in his hand and slightly swinging it, a stilted rhythm, the rhythm of old age walking. |
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