by Tomorrow's Man
As I look at my palms
I see time passing.
The last Friday, February 29th was in 1980. The next will be in 2036. After that, 2064.
Today is one of three rare days in my
expected lifespan.
On the last I was barely
past infantile;
on the next I'll likely be
senile.
As I look at my palms
I see time passed.
As I look at my palms I see time dissolving
into another too-long
February.
I look at my palms and I can hear the hush
of my failing grip
on neoteny.
Let it all out, let it in, feeling fine with a brain like fine cheese and wine, not a word doesn't mean shush it means speak, speak at last past the borders of bad style and strict contradiction I've licked it at last, I've licked it, at last I've outlasted the bastard and I've licked it.
...is type one resonant word into my history, a single four-letter word that has waited twenty years to be stamped into the palimpsest of my being.
Four Hours.
...is take a bow.
2 Days
...is toast all those who tried to lead me into temptation and succeeded -- succeeded at keeping me alive,
...and laugh full-mouthed and bloody at all those who dared to think themselves dark barriers who could thwart my way.
Fools.
I knew the way before you knew my name.
3 Days.
...is watch the tips of each of my fingers revert away from the crushed tomato gore I've chewed them into.
4 Days
...is attempt to learn to breathe again.
5 Days
...is rest, but only for one day.
6 Days
...is watch all of the Ring and Ringu movies, all in a row, no matter how much the American sequels sucked.
7 Days
...is listen to the pure hum of electricity.
8 Days.
...is laugh for days at the fallen snow, laugh and laugh for days and days and days....
...9 Days.
...is promise to update Texticity with regularity more befitting a blog than a major tectonic shift.
10 Days.
...is stick my nose in the air and sniff for traces of Mallards playing baseball.
11 Days.
...is read a book. Maybe Jonathan Livingston Seagull; maybe Dick and Jane; but probably Finnegan's Wake. I think whichever I pick, I'll read a single page a day. It's o.k. at that pace; I'll have the time.
12 Days.
...is sweat the goo of my stress into tiny little bottles, line up an orchestra of mites, and conduct them performing a lush, lovely rendition of the Surfaris song "Wipeout." Though I'll have a flute section, the performance will be oboe and cello heavy to celebrate the season.
13 Days.