T I M P E T E R S O N
________________________________________from SPONTANEOUS GENERATION
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The other side of that is bright. Body of light, of solidity and change.
These parts of me I cannot deny: the space I sit in, the left arm muscle moving into the neck causing headache, colophon of sorrow from another time. Made manifest, a bulb opens in the street.
*
I heart the bright office with pants on and a roiling stream of people moving through it. Confined to me by my papers, rent and its functions of living seem normal. Firm black line on a sheet of acetate. I heart my bee balm in the window, my bourgeois rings.
Nothing pilfered, nothing gained. Stagnant, almost. Though I move through space with shopping bags, the strain animates them. Makeup cracking as it fails to fit the mouth beneath it.
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But delightful! The animating system, checked-in, heart-to-facetime continuum, I pass them! Ordinary folk among green plants, plastic, or fans of that band! We need facilities, we need our desired cables and their message streams.
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We talk and it simulates origins. You came from a state somewhere outside my periphery. I, opening an orange soda, become my trade. Ordinary man, with a woman's hands.
Across the street, mirror-flash in the window lends both nostalgia and hope to the aesthete. Reprimanded subject, you hope to be in pictures, to be "some body" someday.
*
It happened to them. The containers, the ornaments happened to them. They become, in time, a kind of dependence on the background changing, like me. My hand lifting a soda, changing like me and changing. Blood running through my veins that you oversee.
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