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Another short November 23, 2006

Posted by dr. gonzo in Writing.

Happy Thanksgiving. Something to read.

Preparing for the Marble

Struggling with the bones. The ones that are embedded in the sidewalk and alleys and sofas. All about.
Fossilized remains of the day. Forever lost. Forever fragrant of death and flesh rotted after sitting all winter frozen through the months and when spring comes. And when spring comes. Fast blood dripping from solemn vines and the scent on the cool spring morning. Newspapers piled at the doorstep and old junk mail cramming the mail slot, the postman just gave up on you. Wrote off the Christmas tip like spent confetti. Frittered away. The modern movements all left behind relics of aged old men and women. Of the dustbowl and of depression. Lost in the whirlpool. Nothing inside here anymore, anyway. No one can see through the crepuscular curtains, almost like shrouds draped over the only source of light, it’s gone now. Alone. Plastic covered furniture hasn’t moved in eons. Time has stopped in here. You didn’t notice anyway. Not stuck there, to the visqueen. In those shattered skulls are the lost memories of an entire generation. Echoes of battles past. Of moments gone. Of people disappeared. How fast could we have died together? It’s the past gone and future unknown leaving only the present stuck to that plastic and flesh and gone forever and no one notices a damned thing and no one cares that you can’t hear or see or smell. No one notices anything. Time like hourglasses. Ferociously spent evenings and high tailed exits forgotten. Gliding in on those lighter than air wings where things were exploding all around and you never forgot that moment. Even as cruel spring crept its way through the shrouds and claimed its next victim. Moments lost and forgotten rushed to the surface in time for just one more thought. It would be months before anyone noticed anything. When the summer’s heat penetrated the barren surrounding landscape and they finally came to you. Alone. Where they found you. The same as all the yesterdays. Simple. Fateful zippers, closing the end. Couldn’t sit there forever in all plastic and cold and vines. Peeled away from the surface that peeled away the flesh. All gone now. All forgotten and lost. All that remains is the marble.


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