Friday, September 27, 2013


The twenty-six things flying around my head, things, for that moment they hovered in mid-flight:

Some clung to the walls of cerebral and more likely metaphysical hemorrhaging;

Sucking, waiting, bastradizing, writing their own twisted tunes to sing the moment

I notice

Where I left off.

But for the meantime, this,

Pause of the century,

Where none of the outside voices in my head, or the books, or the custom-built guilt, or the silence at the end of rote incantations,


A moment, out of nowhere, in the middle of what is possibly the busiest part of a stressful work week,


Where the worries slithered back to where they belong: in the future,

Where the regrets fizzled out into the now non-existent past: memories are reconstructions, and so the truth is we see what we want to see,

Where everybody's faces feel so kind and taste so soft and look like a newborn's first morning,

Random grace, corporate battlefield, the bloodbaths are never gone.

But they are, for this moment, just red.

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