Friday, March 18, 2011


There once was an age or maybe there wasn't when some waited with conditioned patience for moments that let down children who couldn't make sense of them at the moment that escaped around the corner.  And they eventually arrived in the form of flashing with light piercing times threaded outside one's flickering memories. Twitching fingers burnt with the wax of anxiety pulsing to the rhythm restored briefly.  The erase button is inadvertently pressed with the throb of reticence. Torture overwrites the space built by neglect.

Nonetheless it is debated for we know not now of what has been forgotten.  Material fades back into the corners within the draining tub slipping along the darkened mind.  Nobody can relate.  Reaching the line's end divides prematurely the greater landscape unfolded beneath the canopy of death. Future efforts are treated with scissors caressing glossy wrapping paper to hide empty gifts.  

Bubbles of other people's luck float undisturbed through heavy spaces of fragile existence across seconds elongated like tasteless gum.  Their mastication drowns out questions to stretch their smiles inflated by wheezing and strained language.  Outside arms are limp after so much choreography has perpetrated their exit.

- Max Stoltenberg

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