Hope Springs From The Bushes

There’s an 8 track. There’s a birdcage. There’s a bubble of soup. There’s a signature. There’s a corkboard with thumbtacks arranging half of a life. Here are schedules and numbers being added to calculate net worth. Here is a movie from 1982. Here are homemade efforts. Here is a stereo.

The distance between the edges of the chasm is one leap. The distance from the bottom of the rope to the top is one rope’s worth of effort. The distance around this hug is arms. They distance between here and success is trying. The distance between no degree and degree is school. “The shortest distance between two people is a story”. The distance between knowing and not knowing is learning. The distance between birth and death is life.

I am a cup burglar. I am a secret hoarder. I am a catalogue sniffer. I am an adding machine. My unconscious weighs my days and adds stacks to other stacks. The calendar is a treadmill, not a ladder. There are no days. Each day is unique. There is no Tuesday after Tuesday after Tuesday. One o clock does not exist. All paths are new and watches try to force us to forget that.

I am a collage. My inside-out truths match the mixture of tea and coffee in my cup. My time is up. But time is an illusion. So I am stretched calmly like a settling sheet over the distance between now and then. I am allegory. I draw my own parallels. I align to no comparisons. I put the past in a sound proof room and I muffle the future. The long game must be tackled in very small achievements. Empires are built by ants.



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