Friday, November 27, 2009

Holding Out For Hannover

I step on a train destined for, well it doesn't really matter does it? You just kind of step on board, and navigate your way through row after row of cramped spaces, collecting awkward looks from old women clutching their bags, men looking back on their last decade, and oy punks, now smug having already stowed their oversized bags.

Choose a compartment, and become one of the six for whom the next hours could lead to new friendships, blossoming romances, chance encounters with all that has ever mattered, and all that ever will – never move your eyes from your feet, unless it's to the window then back. Eye contact could be a dangerous thing. Who knows what chain of events it could spark? After all a Smile on Washington Square cut through the course of personal history that may never be. Just pretend to be asleep.

Outside farms ringed with thin wire, holding in all number of animals, plants, and ideas slowly turn into farms of a different sort – gathering the wind, collecting to up, and storing it I'd imagine, in large bags for Odysseus. Large fans churning through the nights, spinning through day – always the unseeing eye blinking in warning from not so far away.

And then the things that never come to pass are behind. Stepping out into the world, if only for a moment, a town of decoration, and celebration greets you with the sky itself wrapped in a collected ribbon of stars, spiraling down towards a ground it will never reach.

An inner forest sprouts from cold tile, unwashed, unloved, unreflective of its current situation.

Moments later moment are forgot as whistle blow where once steam would have accompanied, and the mythology is better left unstudied, untrespassed.

Once more the world presents you wish choices of number twenty one or twenty three – but lost in confines of numeric classification eyes fail to shift, motions come to pass, and relative time relatively stumbles on its was from dinner date to after hours club, hands clutched tightly, thrust into deep pockets with contents unknown without encumbrance becoming cumbersome.

Conversations that never happen play their way out to ultimate conclusions as the red grass finds itself caught by the urban artificial looseleaf light of transcendent Auroras. Thoughts of fallen pages typed on sea foam, salmon, and marigold sprinkle down from never forgotten, but often ignored aspects of self.

Eyes consider laces incorrectly tied for structural soundness, and comfort in uncomfortable soundlessness. Portals to a passing world. Slowly stopping. Straps restrain, hold back, and take the kindness of others to put right, push forward, and maintain.

Familiar faces forgotten from fathomless features form forceful fundamentals

and humans become giants.

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