The Round Office

Sharing a flight at 5:30 is no more or less illuminating than sticking a sock in a bucket of water. Both arrive at nearly the same time, with or without the mind, so whatever intuition fills that vessel will have to be filled to filling’s fullness by the time we don’t care about anything like that or how it happened. Back when there is feeling, more listening, less scope and other mouthwashes and more time to do things - or less, depending on how you look at technology. Glitters less than expectantly is the rose-shine to Infinity, the trellis up which I climb which goes in both directions but so do I, or I don’t, depending on the weather.

The following is true of me: I can never make a flight-plan without knowing the sky and the way the rings of Saturn look from the window of the treehouse I used to have when I was twelve. The sky looks from there all the time. I can find it. But the plane is in tatters around me whenever I ignore this tramping track, this biting bothersome illusion done to the back of time in a runner’s pace of not finding anything at all, whether or not it is now or then or never in a million years.

Smart-bombs rip at the fabric of the holes I’ve made in my house, because they’re designed by very smart people with no wisdom whatsoever to do just the opposite, so that’s what they do, they take down the houses built in time. They remove the lampshades and cry for silhouettes which can be provided only by the thumbs of button-pushers in the round office which seats millions and has room for only one. This reflecting surface often drives people mad, especially when they see it from the outside and do not understand how deep it goes, how deep it sinks to up-and-out-of-here through the tiny piles of my imagination of anyone at all, into the glitter and dust of ages before we even thought of creating history on the walls of caves, on rocks, on the inner slides of minerals and isotopes, with magic markers which spread the legs of invention until she is fucked to a hair’s breadth of life by all the invaders from out of the land of I Want I Want. She can barely stand up, now, and moves to the window of the house made of holes to try to see a sky which holds the occasional rings of Saturn.