the silhouette of a grandfather,
painted on an april afternooned window,
gameshow reruns suspended in time,
tic-tac-dough or joker’s wild,
something with tweed sportscoats
and microphones that look like martian antennae.
coffee that’s cold in a styrofoam cup
sitting there all day,
adjacent to a remote
with buttons the size of boggle cubes,
resting on a christmas-themed tv table,
always there, while I come and go.
There isn't a mission. There isn't a goal. It's just words on fake paper, sliding and tripping and flowing all over the place, because we're all full up on words in here and there is no way we can keep them inside. Like Tony says, "Nothing in here is true."
Monday, April 24, 2006
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