Another Thing

Rain, again. Staccato hammering on the roof. It could well drive you crazy. The last hour of work yesterday, a boiler plate week. I haven't shaved for days, which is odd for me, and I'm curious, if it means anything, that I sacrifice personal appearance for the greater good. Marx, or Freud, or Calvin, coming to bear; any drug I could use to assuage the darkness. I'm poised on the edge of telling, I've walked this scree slope so many times, I know the way rocks turn under my feet. I'm used to losing ground. No pretense, just a rhythm, piano as percussion in the lower registers. The violin mimics a human voice. I'm off to the side, watching the cheerleaders, I love their outfits, that bend of bay, but I'm not foolish enough to believe. Christ, that would require another level, and I'm already confused. Nine ways from Sunday. Whatever that means. I have an outfit prepared, in the wings, someone I could become, and it's not even a false identity, merely an aspect of yourself you hadn't seen before, like turning On The Road into a movie. It could be done, I suppose, but I wonder how accurate it might be. Translation is an issue. Look to the sub-text, see what's trying to be said. It's easy for me, an outsider, to say a comma might be placed there; it's more difficult, for you, as a reader. I pretend nothing but a certain slant of light. It's fall, come on, dance the leaves and swirl the light.