jenx
he awoke that morning in a haze of a brutal hangover that would be long in recovering.
no wallet, no phone, no shoes, no watch.
only a tattoo
stamped
foreverin red ink on his left wrist
it read "Laura"
he didn't know a Laura.
When anyone asked about the tattoo on his left wrist
he lied a new lie each time he answered about it.
every day is always new
always different than the day before
a new one of a kind bosck of time
and only today's time can own the next 24 hours
its own fresh delivery of newly arrived sunlight...
the end of every day always happens overnight
days may seem to stay the same
but every day is always different from any other of your yesterdays
new day time light,air - concepts without physical mass, never in each other's way
intangible, infinite, unstoppable time
(this just begged for one little rhyme)
i negotiate my way out of slumber every morning
my sights avoid the vivid shock of that first glare of blinding atomic white light
each day begins with first programming your yesterday's 24 hours
encrypted data uploads into your brain
everything your yesterday captured and contained
it will process this into the programs
everyday can be a rewrite
it's one of life's great caveats
right a wrong
write a song
sing along
bang a gong
smoke a bong
every day i reach into a goldmine of infinite potential and limitless opportunities
blew that job interview? it's done. try a different idea tomorrow
had a bad date? so has everyone. ask out someone else different than last time
screwed up your job? relationship? fsiled a class? everybody has stories of their miserable humiliating stupid mistakes.
any day you feel less than satisfied with
simply sleep it off and
start again tomorrow
think of what you will do differently today
reinvent yourself as often as you need improvement
it will keep you out of rut
probably get you off your butt
grab hold of each and every next 24 hours and just rewrite it
rewrite it everyday for as long as it takes for you to get it right
Then frame those red letter days in your memory like you're unvelieing it at the Met
is the magic of the 24-hour" (re)cycle
a do-over
revisions
edits
aboard
a boat
set out to sea
abroad
the vast deep ocean blue
a board
on a beam I sit
paddles float away from me
bored
abhorred so
bore red
roses with thorns
a broad
stroke of genius
aboard
my mind
a vessel moving within my stream of consciousness
a vessel to capture and contain all my mind's creations
aboard
this world
aboard
this life
aboard
this existence
aboard
this reality
aboard
this consciousness
aboard
this body
aboard
this moment in time an abstract concept infinitely subjective perception virtual intangible
now is now right now and now and now
aboard
this multi dimensional fabric of space
and time will stop me when my time ends
abort
this life's mission
end transmission
change channel another station
tunnel vision through the wormhole
my billions of atoms come undone
once all of one and then there was none.
--trans.mission --
trans mission
The plaster was peeling off the walls throughout the old, dilapidated structure that once was her childhood home. The wallpaper had long since curled away and rotted off the high walls in the house. In a corner adjacent to a short closet door she noticed that where the plaster had crumbled off the wall was something that looked like newsprint. Old, yellowed with age and probably cigar smoke, it was set between plastic film which must have been intended to preserve the paper. It was a new york newspaper dated February 14, 1921. Her grandfather and a man named "Lucky" were photographed together at a fundraiser gala for needy children. They each held a snifter of cognac in one hand and a cigar in the other; a candid shot of them in a conversation, they were smiling with certain awareness of the cameras, but there was a very familiar expression on her grandfather's face which she recognized as a child when he was on one of his "important" phone calls. She chipped at the plaster some to remove the newspaper. She put it in a large envelope and placed it in her briefcase. She reached in her pocket for her phone and dialed the number tattooed on her left wrist. "Yeah, it's me. Meet me at our spot in an hour. Alone. And don't be late this time. Capice?"
The red beam of light of the sniper's laser atop his rifle had pointed right into her retina and ever since then there was this discernible dot in the center of the vision of her right eye. it wasn't a bother to her really, but it always reminded her of that breathless moment when the sniper had her in his target. Her mouth turned up in a half smile when she recalled how slick she had been in avoiding his military trained precision shot at her. now, as she wandered her way through the tables in the restaurant where she chose to work in after she had made her brilliant escape to the United States, she couldn't help but chuckle when she introduced herself to customers, "Hi, I'm Dot; I'll be your server today."
dot com. dot your i's, cross your t's. mind your manners if you please. connect the dots. fell on my head. saw spots saw dots; meat i am not dead.. moles, holes pinpricks, zits, ocular pupils, dermatological pores, cheetahs, ladybugs, dalmatians. polka dots, candy dots, acronyms, red dot after giving blood or a getting flu shot. end a sentence with a dot. dot dot dot. ellipsis.
As instructed she sat at a desk stacked high with hundreds of documents and surrounded by dozens of boxes in an empty office next to the freight elevator one floor above the one where her department was situated shredding all of the thousands of internal documents until five in the morning. An old, rusty staple broke apart and pricked her finger. A single pinprick drop of blood splattered on the edge of a single piece of paper that was to be shredded. She tore the bloodied piece off the paper, crumbled it up and swallowed it with a gulp of scotch her boss handed her as he scrutinized her every move.