The disurgency of the moment happens when there are no moments left or they are unrecognized. Are you happening right now?
Is anything really happening outside the self?
Shit! The day went by without laundry. "How long can the laundry hold out?" I ask the day and my clothes, piled up for the cats to sleep on. Too sleep in my clothes, that is a luxury that I seldom share with others. Everything else is a grab-bag of my self. To sleep is an afterthought and an acceptance, wondering when the robe of love will wake.
Smoke twirls around the fan and then out the window. Bacon grease collects on the blades of breakfast for dinner, whirring in my stomach. The eggs broken. The potatoes crisp in the night as I wait. Empty beer bottles from days ago stand, drank, on this desk. Left over coffee like syrup down my throat.
These really happen.
As I wait for the day to happen.
Is anything really happening outside the self?
Shit! The day went by without laundry. "How long can the laundry hold out?" I ask the day and my clothes, piled up for the cats to sleep on. Too sleep in my clothes, that is a luxury that I seldom share with others. Everything else is a grab-bag of my self. To sleep is an afterthought and an acceptance, wondering when the robe of love will wake.
Smoke twirls around the fan and then out the window. Bacon grease collects on the blades of breakfast for dinner, whirring in my stomach. The eggs broken. The potatoes crisp in the night as I wait. Empty beer bottles from days ago stand, drank, on this desk. Left over coffee like syrup down my throat.
These really happen.
As I wait for the day to happen.
There comes a time in every corporate-lackey-dogs career when one has an hour or two of shameless worklessness. When it would be better to have one's feet up on the desk, a shot bourbon in the hand and a cigarrette twirling between one's fingers. When the days and weeks become muddled and all seems a constant stream of moments spent sifting through file directories, phone calls, emails and meetings. This is one of those days.
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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