Anodyne
Monday, April 16, 2007
 
Born Under Punches

Steady grey rain, stripping the petals from the local trees. A clump of bright green grass at the foot of the little tree outside the door: Durer turf! The usual procession of Monday morning drive-ups: FedEx, Canpar, Canada Post's delivery guy, the one with the duty-due-on-delivery parcels and his hand out. Today, though, a useless freebie: bad movie posters from the promotional service John signed us up for years ago (a 300 clone, by the look of things, starring hordes of CGI-generated demons, someone named "Moon Bloodgood," and a prominently displayed "18A -- Frequent Gory Violence" warning). Talking Heads' Name of This Band on the deck, all I seem to play lately, really. The shush of tires in the rain. Lost souls, wandering in with that distinctive funny walk that says selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors in block capitals. A perpetual questioning air. As in, I'm not really making statements? I'm just contemplating them?

"I'm looking for this novel?"

All I want is to breathe, thank you.
Thank you.
Won't you breathe with me?
Find a little space so we move in between.
I'm so thin.
And keep one step ahead of yourself.
I'm catching up with myself.
And keep one step ahead of yourself.
I'm catching up with myself.
- posted by cjb @ 11:02 AM


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