Somewhere in This
They die too quickly to remember. They are born too many to count. And somewhere in this are mountains and rivers. Orgasms, hiccups, bloody noses. The squeaky bedsprings of existence.
Somewhere in this is a pathway through dark canals and sunlit pastures. Desks. Tall tales. Summer icecream cones. Crushes. Dilapidated wheels. Acne. The pubescent growth. The procreant urge.
And what are moments but dust and sand beneath the toes of the wanderers? Forgotten as they pass in search of something lost.
Somewhere in this are papers and orders. Desks. Tall tales. Summers shrunken to a matter of days. Crushes. Shiny sedans. Cellulite. The power of capital. The urge to climb.
And what are days but markers on the highway toward an unknown exit? Drivers become cyborgs. All maps heading East toward a river. Toward the bridge.
Somewhere in this are parties. Watches. Empty desks. Tall tales. Crushes. Cruise ships. Withered flesh. The social construction of time. The urge to return through sealed doors. To places that only exist in waking dreams and fantasy.
And what are lifetimes but flashes of light on the salty horizons? Witnessed by the travelers who stop on the highway, marveling at a spectacle they cannot explain. Bathed in the warm humidity of a summer's storm. |