Sunday, August 28, 2011


Where they stood with each other was where they stood and where they did not go with each other.  Not a chance to chance it or the ground the foundation the ground was too hard to carve any time out of chance's face that face waking up from some face sinking into the bed's darkness under the blankets.  Running sliding along the outer edge of the white picture completely white as cream cheese photograph until riddled with the blemishes of words and different directions stepping down off of the curb and back up again not really going to make it to remain with the remaining.

Courtesy brought to it by courtesy of the exchange that will have no truck with it destined with it destined to have no destiny but the one planting their feet into the tide going out from the top of the curb where they backed up to remain with the remaining.  Left to hang out out of it out of them left hung out to dry already dry for years since the last things they had forgotten things some such stuff forgotten to further dry with the harsh air to rub the bits of looking forward still stuck to their skin their last layers layer or so.

She looked at him on the curb as he looked at the curb at the dead edge where nothing emerged. 

She: Do you want to go out or do you want to go in?
He: Which one did you want to tackle first?
She: I just want to know which you want.
He: So do I.
She: You don't have to make decisions based solely on what I want.
He: It's funny you should say that.
She: Am I speaking in that strange tone with that amusing variety of inflection again?
He: It's like the tide is going out and taking the summer the heat of the summer finally and tomorrow I will be proved wrong one more time as I look up at the sky the brightest blue looking for clouds to bring rain to bring some shade and tell myself "no" because I can't tell others I just say it to myself with not being noticed by anyone else as their eyes never meet mine after looking away myself so many instances of escaping and can no longer come back and maybe have someone ask my opinion or what I believe about the sky and how it looks to me.  When will I tell someone that I can't look the sky in the whatever and declare what I don't believe about it and instead know that it's what the sky doesn't believe about me.
She: A chance to predict to engage in some predicting.
He: It's one of a cluster of theories.  Depending on what you consider to belong in the cluster: 4, 5, 6?  7 even?
She: 7 is not an even number.
He: Oddly enough it's a proposal or was was what I was getting at moving towards.
She: As we stand here.
He: Stopped evolving.  Just sort of levelled off on a plateau or a ledge more like on the other side of the mountain smallish mountain side of some structure or other that other lost the view if the one before could be seen as a view never looked that inviting on the inside poking at it pointing at it made this life this life on the inside in the inside of this tank go into shock and break out in irrationality and then finally become more down to Earth as you turned over we turned over a rotting leaf to have a better look at the gravel at the bottom while all the blood ran to our heads and our feet pretending to walk on the ceiling just cycling in the hollow space.
She: Don't feel like cooking.  I said it.  It's out.  And that's probably all the out we'll get today or any other day.  Maybe if we go back that way just a street just cross one road and not think about where it could take us because we're done with being taken we can pretend that we're going in and then come back to where we were where we are right now and then act as if we've gone out.  It's what everyone else is doing.  At least that's what I tell myself.  I've told myself that for years so that I can feel better about not getting anywhere so I can stop envying all these other people getting places and going back and forth moving forward and backward and out and in being twisted into the hole of routine that twists them and peels another layer off of them to keep making lines lines moving and crossing other lines intersecting at intersections making angles that appear new and are actually old while we try to erase mistakes and tear the sheet crumple it up and start all over trying not to make another anything permanent.
He: Keep having to pile up rocks and move them far enough away from others so they won't throw them.  I didn't think that they could grow or move but they keep showing up more of them and in just about the same places that they were picked up from.  How did they get there?  Didn't know that there was a possibility that rocks could precipitate.  It's ridiculous isn't it?  As things make less sense our explanations get more insane.  I would like to make more sense just once before tomorrow.  In case I die tomorrow.  I probably won't die tomorrow.  And I probably won't make any more sense tomorrow.  Rocks sure do precipitate a great deal.
She: I almost wrote a poem last night.  I got too exhausted.  Trying to recall what it was about.  Had what I thought was a good start or maybe it was the end.  It was something about a father and his son or a mother and her daughter where little arms didn't feel real or was it big hands that could no longer touch or sense.
He: A catalogue to order from fell from a 14th floor balcony and landed on the back of a flatbed.  There was nothing on the platform so the speed it was travelling at just sent the catalogue on its way from wheel to wheel roof to roof to finally rest wet and damaged on the street in front of an office building where someone leaving work discovered it and took it up to their 14th floor balcony.
She: You should contemplate the curb for a change and realize the importance of being at the edge the edge of something new to emerge and see how the edge keeps us back and lets everything else violate it.  In and out in and out trying to elicit something to develop some layer some build up between us and that that nonsense that keeps crossing the edge and taking away where we get taken some more where we become thinner to make thinner lines that get erased anyway leaving nothing permanent nothing emerges on that edge not really.

- Max Stoltenberg

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