these spaces are only arbitrary places we inhabit, or
that is wrong, and they actually contain
traces of our past and future
selves, of our once
and once again
faces
either way, the Bald Man wants to know how something that seems so
important can be shed from us, and we still go on
living, go on beginning, or
giving a fuck
a window we’ve looked out of for years will become
another window we look out of for years will
become another window we
look out of for years
will become
and we didn’t need these things, we
never needed them: lawnmower
leaf blower, generator,
flamethrower:
a dim and silent
shedful of life’s supplies
we can torch the down and the din
can strip to the bone, and
we will still only
ever inhabit ourselves, and
not even that
we will leave every place we have ever
known, innit, and while the places
seem like they are us when
we are in them, they are
as easily dropped as a
a winter coat, or a skin, barely been lived in
we leave, so that we can know other
places so we can leave so
we can know other
places so we can leave so we can
and there is only the now of this
color, this taste, this
blade of grass
caught in the throat, choked
sought out, and yet surprised by, every time
* word credits to scott hutchison and frightened rabbit
TAGS: DailyRothko | Dogs | Fall2018