skiv

Tapered truths cut out from magazines spell out in staggered text the muses of an artist. A half-crazed madman would, if ever in awe, gaze in wonder at the prose achieved.

I travel between commercials, through purple rain and strange-languaged nations. I sleep on roadsides and dream of Boston creams, custard filling. Befriending other wanderers, I tell stories of past excursions and adventures, carelessly challenge them in childish games if truth or dare, and invite them to visit for a tea party. I've seen where the grass grows greener, been home and back again, played the fool, won the award. I came around for the time in-between, time spent doing other things. Stolen moments only a few minutes long, before the program comes back on.

new ecstasies delivered daily through sensory intakes and exported by the mass media, an economic exposé of failure intertwined with gargantuan success, fixated on percentiles and majorities. left behind is a thing of the past. or is a thing of the past left so far behind that it becomes a prophecy circling time in a carousel of double-seated delinquents forming a porous revolution. what was meant to be a tragedy, became a hilarious outbreak of parodies to end all melodrama and a college essay to please the masses.

Standing, waiting, posing, the wind whips her ankles, pushing her presence past and – an unexpected side effect – gone. Standing still, she searches unknown foot falls passing the time counting the seconds. Waiting there, for the wind and for the spring when the flowers bloom. Posing spontaneously, captured in the blink of an eye hair wound in the breath of a god as the sky clouds.