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Essays on Time Archive

Crippled and set to the boulevard, cast casually and malice of afterthought, a muscle relaxer in the maw of a black bird, I thought you knew I’d come, come for the lost things. I thought you knew.

I forgot my number, my place, forgot the attitude to keep me safe (though I never played that hand too well, and always bluffed my way to poverty). All I could remember once were the lost things, like papers blown into bridge caverns then swirling until it’s time to go, flying blind down streets, over fences, and then going where lost things go.

I am a lost thing.

“My,” they say sometimes behind me, “He doesn’t seem like that, no not like that at all”.

And sometimes it’s said to my face, as though I were a ghost image, a negative, some pastiche of someone they thought they knew that had gone all lost thing on them, like that stanza to that song, or that blurred photograph of someone they had their arms around, but carelessly and loose.

And so you didn’t know and so what of it? I’m here and you never did predict the future in any sort of way that did you any good. I’m here, and the lost things are close and the world still turns as though it didn’t matter.

 

Oh god, not again. If I knew he was coming, I’d … Christ I don’t know, I would have made more of my time, written that book, dropped more acid, fucked my dead.

Why would he come here all ragged and burnt, like some black bird from a field fire? I didn’t ask for this, this lost thing, this dim vapor. I’ve walked my walk and sung my song, kicked an old can down the tracks, lived my life as basically a good man, so can’t I go on?

Lights behind drawn curtains, rooms ripe with fried chicken scent, silverware and ‘how was your day, honey?’ They don’t talk of lost things; I know they don’t, not in family homes, with wrap around porches and steady incomes. No, maybe alone in beds beneath unstained sheets, one will wake and think of one lost thing, some minor regret, a fathers watch fob, a mothers vase, maybe even they’ll cry a bit, but they’ll sleep and have orange juice and bacon in the morning and the world will still turn.

 

“So, Dawg, How ya doing?”

“I’m all right, Hare, I’m just all right. You?”

“Good man. I’m good.”

 

Aquarius rising in a pale sky against cheery blossoms, black bird perched on the constellation like a harbinger of nothing, an omen of being an omen, a portent of black bird. This is the way we step inside.

 

 

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