rejectomorph | Reset Forty-Seven, Day Forty-Seven

So, choked on the monotonous hours and the ill-timed sleep, I wander witless through another day and night, and The gray morning and the leafless breeze-blown tree pile loads of vague memories on me, whereupon I drown in undifferentiated nostalgia and regret. I've been having where-the-hell-am-I moments. I'll get absorbed by whatever is on the monitor and, wondering how the sky looks, will reflexively reach up to pull back the curtain on the window that burned away over four years ago. Then I have to remember where I am, and still not be quite certain.

Or maybe I'll wake in the early morning darkness and wonder if I just heard the car of the guy delivering some 1979 edition of The Los Angeles Times to the back apartment just pass along the driveway that's 40-odd years and 600-some miles away. Or I'll be reading a deeply engaging book and suddenly panic because I can't remember if I bought my RTD bus pass this month, but this month is in 1982. That's the sort of shit you don't expect to happen to you, and then it happens. But what the hell, if I live long enough I'll eventually forget that too. But I wonder what equally unexpected shit happens then?

Sunday Verse

No One

by Michael Burkard

Well, yes, you were immobile in the mathematical
classroom. You could be on the sea, very well in fact,
but you were afraid to be in it. Yet you also knew
you knew something of the sea, something believable
and invisible, something you just forgot and a gigantic
moment before you forgot it.

One face leads to another just as a pair of shoes
on this side of the one night past full moon suggests
a pair of shoes or socks on the other side of this
moon. And on the other side of the enchanted journey
you must still make, the one through the face and through
the forest of the heart, the one replete with longing

and comedy about longing, the one complete with a foolish
voice over the telephone and a child's wild drawing of
moons and suns half together and half not but wild in the
still enchanted woods, doves and ghosts and doors and one
still face, and this slight suggestions of a question leading
again to the sea, as if you never left the moment forgotten
by the sea, that kiss there, that robbery there, that abuse

there as only the sea could witness for you yo keep you still
intact, on the other side if all the time's lips two more friends
tell you yes, and two more friends tell you no. The child
reaches to draw with her left hand, it's an impulse which was
removed for all intents and purposes years ago. Also, her
long silence around food and stones and trees indicates how

something still slightly unknown, like a question, has entered
unseen from the adult world. And it is this feeling of the in-
visible you address after all, because of her, and because of
an equal exhaustion with all complications which drain you but
like the still world lead you even against your own
self-will to the sea. Like a ghost of your own left hand,
and hers also, the child's, waiting for someone who will

appear but who will also not appear, or may not, and take
your hand and kiss it. And take it to the moon, to the fantastic
moon over a fantastic sea, to make your life the invisible box
the dove sleeps upon, the believable sock which weighs night
like a writer misshapen by love and by sticks, by one journey
after another into intuitive space, the time and place of
appearances, the thinking we will count the world and the worlds

if only given time. But who can give us this time? Other than
ourselves, and a feeling we belong to ourselves, and to no one.
And no one would give us this time except the sun and the sea,
the integrated moon, no one understands no one like they do.