Tuesday, July 12, 2011


Counting on fingers that would rather tap a tune interrupted then forgotten what was it up to or down to between what and what the and adds nothing to what was being counted on in the first place or second place or last place or numerous numbers of fitting befitting refitting filtered drama as the filter flashes yellow then red then green then yellow then red then green then yellow then red then green places dissolving and fading over zero that round egg drain sinking feeling that sinks into the sink and fills back up and drains again and fills back up and drains again and fills back up and backs up and even cracks and breaks even uneven even this even that even you are not in the mood to count on proxy for the expression letting it get less on the cheese grater grating and berating no more no less and lie down lie up lie about it to just about everyone except the one two three or for whom the mesmerizing sharp soft shapes once counted on to bring one or two or more or less closer or further away from finishing or starting right or left behind or in front of the middle in it in it in its face those hideous eyes like a friend emptied of listening long time past when counting on took place on took you took him took her took her took you took you away when you were too small to count to count on to count on leaving for back to where it seemed to start and go around in aiming for a center swept off the table by arms that swept him swept her swept her swept you swept you off your feet off your and out of your head it derails from the tracks of your thoughts like a film running away into an empty next chapter that never comes and shows up like a show that will always be a show to show how the show is nothing but a vision divided into division and subdivided into subdivision and subverted into subversion submission no longer counting on a mission but remission of the same old symptoms counted on to identify a subverted introverted introversion posing as an extroverted pose that reposes into counting backwards until it ifs ands and buts up against the wall of losing track of the story that keeps partitioning into smaller situations quilted together over the surface of positions blended into less and less and less one big one big one counted on to be the one and alternates with the blink of sunset into nothing added nothing gained nothing almost most of it lost to prolong the counting on and not counting on off the track derailed from the tracks of thoughts like a film running away into an empty chapter that keeps partitioning into cubicles what each sits noisy and still counting on no longer on off the mark dry erased by the long hollow tube of the arm sweeping figures from the table where they sit one by one and none by none neither falling or standing for or against against each other back to back to back to support each other in counting on no longer counting on as it ticks away only in the teeth grinding in time to losing track of time derailing from the tracks of thoughts like a film running away into the next empty chapter to be filled and refilled with the same old fight same old climax same old celebration colored in by little hands big hands dried out hands no longer soft no longer counting on counting off sounding off not sounding a thing like the same old thing sounding achingly familiar with the muscles counting on sleep to untangle knots beyond count rounded to the nearest and typical of predictions and maledictions and benedictions sending us off to be counted the counted on no longer counting on and off one's count picked up again and dropped on the table to be swept off and told it never happened count it again and this time make it come out even in the end to start again in the middle somewhere near somewhat near approaching the center of no longer counting on.

- Max Stoltenberg

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