Friday, June 18, 2004
Revised Inky Darkness prose
The lights from the city are harsh.
The streets are crowded with automobiles and the pace of life is too fast.
And the cold tone of your voice interrupts my favorite daydream.
And I’m thinking about work tomorrow.
And I’m thinking about the argument we just had.
We are back after a long drive in the inky darkness of the countryside.
As we drove through the velvet countryside, I looked at the houses.
The lights in the windows dotting the evening land like fireflies on a dark July night.
And it was warm.
And we rolled the windows down.
And you turned the radio off.
Needing suddenly to be a part of the inky darkness of the countryside.
You pulled the car off to the side of an empty road.
We got out; you took my hand as we began to walk.
And I could hear the crickets chirping.
And I could hear the cows softly mooing in the fields.
And I could feel the summer breeze against my skin,
blowing in from the inky darkness of the countryside.
We argued then. I don’t remember why.
Our thoughts were filled with fragments of “if only…” and “I wish…” and “why don’t you ever…”
And I wished I hadn’t said what I said
And I wished that you loved me more
And I wished I could stay in the inky darkness of the countryside.
The drive back to the city was quiet.
I looked at the lights in the windows of the houses and I wondered about the people inside.
Were they happy?
Did they know that people were driving by, looking at their windows and wondering about their lives?
Did they like living in the inky darkness of the countryside?
I turned and watched you as you drove. I was fascinated by your profile.
You were staring straight ahead.
Your hands were taut on the steering wheel.
Your mouth was set in a disapproving frown.
Your mood was as bleak as a north Texas winter.
Would you live with me in a little house in the inky darkness of the countryside?
People would drive past, looking at the lights in the windows and wonder about our lives.
If they could look in the windows they would see us sitting in our chairs.
I would turn and watch you as you read. I was fascinated by your profile.
You would be looking down at your book.
Your hands would be taut on the book.
Your mouth would be set in a disapproving frown.
Your mood still as bleak as a north Texas winter.
The lights from the city are harsh.
The streets are crowded with automobiles and the pace of life is too fast.
And the cold tone of your voice interrupts my favorite daydream.
And I’m thinking about work tomorrow.
And I’m thinking about the argument we just had.
We are back after a long drive in the inky darkness of the countryside.
As we drove through the velvet countryside, I looked at the houses.
The lights in the windows dotting the evening land like fireflies on a dark July night.
And it was warm.
And we rolled the windows down.
And you turned the radio off.
Needing suddenly to be a part of the inky darkness of the countryside.
You pulled the car off to the side of an empty road.
We got out; you took my hand as we began to walk.
And I could hear the crickets chirping.
And I could hear the cows softly mooing in the fields.
And I could feel the summer breeze against my skin,
blowing in from the inky darkness of the countryside.
We argued then. I don’t remember why.
Our thoughts were filled with fragments of “if only…” and “I wish…” and “why don’t you ever…”
And I wished I hadn’t said what I said
And I wished that you loved me more
And I wished I could stay in the inky darkness of the countryside.
The drive back to the city was quiet.
I looked at the lights in the windows of the houses and I wondered about the people inside.
Were they happy?
Did they know that people were driving by, looking at their windows and wondering about their lives?
Did they like living in the inky darkness of the countryside?
I turned and watched you as you drove. I was fascinated by your profile.
You were staring straight ahead.
Your hands were taut on the steering wheel.
Your mouth was set in a disapproving frown.
Your mood was as bleak as a north Texas winter.
Would you live with me in a little house in the inky darkness of the countryside?
People would drive past, looking at the lights in the windows and wonder about our lives.
If they could look in the windows they would see us sitting in our chairs.
I would turn and watch you as you read. I was fascinated by your profile.
You would be looking down at your book.
Your hands would be taut on the book.
Your mouth would be set in a disapproving frown.
Your mood still as bleak as a north Texas winter.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
The work week
How are you feeling today?
Like a nose without a face
How did you feel yesterday?
Like a shoe, trodden down at the heels
and missing a tongue
How will you feel tomorrow?
Like a balloon; shiny, red, and floating on air.
How are you feeling today?
Like a nose without a face
How did you feel yesterday?
Like a shoe, trodden down at the heels
and missing a tongue
How will you feel tomorrow?
Like a balloon; shiny, red, and floating on air.
