i must confess, two-thirds of these

i must confess, two-thirds of these
memories are used, three-quarters
spent, four-fifths
every key in my possession
is rusted,
long over-
and it has nothing
to do with neglect


  1. Glenn Buttkus

    Gosh, had to reidentify myself this morning. I guess my Yi-Ching cookie has evaporated, and the cyber gnomes are feeling frisky. Some nice twists and turns in this effort, Y. /memories/ begin to churn and move in tandem and overlap and undulate,
    and soon like playing a film backwards, the surreal usurps the real, and one becomes /indistinguishable/ from the other, just an etherial, somewhat esoteric exercise attempt at recall, relife, whereby the mere reconstituting of the past in memory becomes a vivid retelling of the event, the person, the sunset and rise, just jetting through your cortex at 1,000 frames a second, letting you feel it perceptually more than see it. And we come again to the doors of perception that need a /key/ to unlock them, some of them lopsided, hanging on one hinge, rotted, tarnished, invisible, overgrown with ivy, bricked in, and then with your camera’s eye you notice the oxidation, the /rust/, in macro, an abstract design of itself, a Zen sand painting, a tapestry, a relief of metal death and decomposition, but as you tell us /it has nothing/to do with neglect/….it has to do with time, with movement that is only perceived as movement, and the physical response that your own individual perception has created in your personal environment, your world.

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