Ignoring woes

I have the luxury of explaining myself and I am no one in
particular. I might as well be a Phoenician wrecking his back on
the crops of his desert, eating roots and weeds and dreaming of
hogback, who invented the very idea of “I” and at once forgot it
with his evening wine. What he saw in the back of his mind, which
he couldn’t conceive of in a million years or for a fact a
million anything, might have been trees rustling, dogs barking,
shores listening, men making millions. If I were his color, not
brown, not red, not black, but the color of the sun if it wore
eyeshadow and wanted to hide its terrors, I might have dreamed of
numbers. The one, his child, the second, his wife, and an
infinity which plumbed all of his thoughts. If he knew the
yapping maw of misery, he kept quiet. That is something men learn
to do as if learning how to crank a machine. If he knew anything,
he kept quiet, for the wrecking of his bones was enough music to
still the pineal gland he knew nothing of, and enough to still
his joints. I have the luxury of forgetting, which I, as yet,
haven’t used or praised or yawned at.

So end today’s experiments.

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~ by Jeremy on June 13, 2012.

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