We spend all afternoon reading impenetrable texts like mystical objects, and when we look up the sun is ailing. It has been given too much meaning and it burns through us, so lazy and retrofitted with memory. To be open when we wish to survey and to be surveyed, that is the best case scenario. A best case scenario is a tactical move, analyzing the situation for its strengths and weaknesses. A stream of consciousness winds its way through the volley of selves below in the street sprung with gardens at the edges. Hydro-powered turbines start up, initiated by a single mouse click, a roving self-formation. To humanize it, we encounter a sprig of rhythm, jutting out of the wall we thought solid, undermining it. We implies a tour through lands of delight as well as suffering, and a distance from that morning. From the birds eye view, out the roving window, a study in grey and faded tones. An absolute grid or relative grids are suggested but not definite, as we can step away from the shutters on our route to the kitchen for a cup of tea with purple antioxidants. Carving the notice onto a playful scrim, a trade off, and then erasing it, we rebound from intimacy into a bone enclosure.
Last week I was at the bookstore picking up Spinoza and Whitehead. That's an example of metonymy.
Spinoza and Whitehead wanted to go for a drink afterward but I said we should be getting home soon, I only have five hours before I turn into a pumpkin.
I handed the books over to the woman at the counter to pay for them, and I said "It was a relief to find these; they are exactly what I needed." She said "So, where do you teach?"
Pumpkins are more frequent in the window displays. You and I form a figure in which the area of likeness and the area of unlikeness becomes thinner than a wig cap.
Sometime around then, I had a horrifying dream in which I was swallowing large rats while trying not to kill them.
I felt secure in the knowledge that my courageously humane rat-swallowing would not go unnoticed. A wig cap protects you from another's scalp disease.
I carved a bust of Spinoza on my pumpkin, and the costumed kids passed by the porch like an ostrich.
Friends had been calling; I cooked dinner that night in the last clean pot.
Tim Peterson is a poet, critic, and editor living in