It sounded like Laura breezing through the coffee room. I slapped my thigh and chirped, "ain't that a pure bee-yitch?" It wasn't just "one of those days", or just "let's not repeat this year again", but it was like "the road leads to nowhere(and I'm okay with that, rock your body all night)".
And then they're asking, "where were you when it happened?" Me and WKQB Fayetteville/Southern Pines were having donuts that bright morning. I was where I'd be a long time, actually, waiting on the world to come around, having a kind of unction and longing to make improvements, but hardly the werewithal, the sand, the pure camel balls to bring it off.
Somewhere out of Shanksville PA, the guy's mother heard him tell the other passengers "let's roll". I was listening to Dan Rather go over a lot of just in stuff. Fresh reports as they all scrambled for confirmations of a thousand little details.
On the seventh year, "in the shadow", 2008 "via obscura" I wore my old Ford hat and had an average day. Bojangles Cajun pieces lunch, and they lady apologized for my wait. But I had an hour. There was minutia, and the porn star sitting at the gas station, the one that usually liked to show while I wasn't there. We played tag for a while, passing in the back hall, me clocking out, and her checking to see from the other what mistakes I had made that shift.
I remember her saying "Mike broke the band". Bitch, Mike has the keys to hell. Mike got strung up, was not supposed to make, but he churned the cream into Butler. I stood confused and determined to upset further the paradigm when I saw Brant go behind the counter for something, and with three managers standing there.
Maybe the bitch just wanted a keychain. And me ready to hand her her own ass.
Under the bridge, some water and turtles. See them sit.
"Never forget", the refrain, glass and sand. The Democrat response.
My suddenly becoming in a sense more confident, knowing my very existence frustrates the collars of power. And time is just a matter of perspective, in that, and at any minute it might seem larger, smaller, engrafted or insignificant, depending on the particular pin point on the larger board, with hills being just lines, shrubbery circular blobs, and Gwyneth writing f*ckbooks, and stuff.
Enlighten the masses. Grabbing a 20 pound standard size plate, between both hands, the 9 and 3 positions, and going this way then that, 12-6, 6-12, leading with my jack-off hand. And in the mirror, something of a coating, a palate of wear put over the works, f*ck 19 useless toilet bowl years.
"He is me, but I am not him." I was saying, in the airport, and the hitman looked at me I was speaking Latin or the Koine of something, anything but the common King's own, and I was thinking, "I didn't build the f*cking thing", but you know, if you sit there, you can see the gears turning, and watch the hands slowly complete their circle throughout the space of time.
And such is to know the quiddity of the universe, to throw away moments, marking time, and yet it follows you not into the future, but for some bloody scratchings on the plaster. And you might know, but only be able to put that down when the subject matter has elapsed into the vastness of the universe, and it's all gone.
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