a journey akin to comatose
last night i (dreaming) was
walking everywhere in the city wearing
oversized pajamas. i kept
(being convinced i was) having trouble breathing;
searching for a puffer in my pockets and
sucking on it. the taste
of medical powder in my lungs and on my
tongue. the time (to me) was in a constant
flux; uncertain, but one thing, the side-
walks shuffling underfoot, something something and eventually
woke up not remembering if i forgot to breathe
or not. there’s a meaning there somewhere (glass of
water, mouth-white, paper dry), but i think i left it
(in a dream).
boing!
sunday mouthful of sour gummi-frogs
youtube ambience mode:
cat sounds
dawkins debate
epic after epic compilation
fuck it, we’ll do it live!
i don’t think
we’re doing anything ‘live’
i wonder which episode of
‘top chef’ is on right now
if i had cable
if i had a tv
if i woke up before
4:35 pm
oh god
i think time is passing
12:38 AM
and twitter is twittering
with no notion that i exist
in the background, richard dawkins
is on a podium above a slowly moving red bar
above time and the concept of creation
in the background
less palpably,
the ever-present
but not quite quantifiable sensation
of circular, self-defeating conflict:
don't want to work vs. need to work
lethargy vs. responsibility
and at intervals
my computer's fan
rising angrily
then fading
then fading
then 12:43 AM
then fading
philip gordon is a poet, lover of shades, and proponent of the Oxford Comma. he enjoys adorable guinea pigs and playing piano at inadvisable hours. please stalk him at the following shamelessly self-promoted locations: @greymusic_ on twitter and grey-music.tumblr.com