I sit here in the Navy Yard, sitting in a chair, green paint peeling and cover exposed to the threads. I look out the window. The pale blue and faded red cranes sit a top their gridded bases, hibernating, waiting for spring to come. "The hounds of winter are upon us". Lindsey imagines them as tiny houses, tiny houses that follow the sun. I miss the sun. My apartment is so dark. There is no light in the kitchen. Florescant and suspended on high.
It is so lovely here now. Egg nog and southern comfort. Coffee and rolled drum. Tin and tinfoil. This foil drags on, drags into lungs and exhales as smoke whispers, sursurring us pleasant in ink blot afternoon. The first layer, gray and awaiting the murky blue sea of evening. Lake and lack. Luster and star brooms. Bristle into the hair, stand on end. Stand up into the ink blot sky. Nether nebulous afternoon star. Pervasive inchoate moon. Drizzle into skin. Seep. seep, seep. drizzle. piano. and oh. oh where ink blue. you who now come and go with the alternative movement of industries excursion. excursive and cursive. I want to roll out of here, roll back into a void indiscernable. There is no light in here. wavering flame to wick. bic moments in augenblick mountains trailing in indian paint brush. The path is granual. gradual decline. slipping upon the rock worn grains of over used heel and toe. Toeing a line that doesn't pick up. Pick up. Pick up bones and walk into crane days. augur well. augur. rotate in tomorow's subway train. JMZ. abayent JMZ. obeyed. obey.
In solitude it comes, leaning into the ear. cupping the ear in stiff hand, lego yellow, whispers over marble shoulders. surrsurs. surreptitious. steal away back into black nebulous comfort. black. aurora black. dark days. these are dark days and the sky hangs limp.
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