I. Home.
twelve fourteen Post Meridian,
oh, the love of the early morning.
wake, and telephone abuses commence-
until the buttons are battered
from being punched so much. these
moments are ticking, ticking.

Wash myself clean, cut myself bare,
dry the drips of indiscriminaton.
what is what is not the truth,
it does not matter, it does not matter.

II. Transit.
car door. open. close.
open. close. open. close.
house door. open. close.
open. close.
car door. open. close.
open. close. open. close.
open. close.
house door. open.

III. Lovers.
all of this for merriment,
empty, meaningless merriment.

somewhere, this clock is still ticking:
kiss passionately for 10.2 seconds.

IV. Streets.
Senseless chatter carries on, while goodbyes
are muttered but not really meant; eight forty five.
somewhere around nine, these words are said again,
meant for once. As if we will never see one another again,
we embrace for a few moments time. is this the end of our lives?

the car doors shut, the engines turn,
and the breeze cascades.
this empty street.

V. Inside.
As the door shuts, in floats the moth,
undoubtedly looking for flame or bulb
searching for warmth.
Watch as the beautiful princess swats,
her black and white fur, feline instincts,
the swift blow is landed, and the battered
moth is on his last breath.

Of course, i'd rather dismiss this as i think,
leaning my head against this glass,
that on the other side of this door is the end
of this summer, this moment.
The headlights reflected across the street,
as my hearse would carry me to the place i would rest.
Kissed her goodbye, is this really the end of our lives?

VI. Transit II
Of course, this is just a pause in the moment-
meanwhile, i understand how important this is
and how little it means.
car door. open. shut.
the tail lights flutter as bursts of fleeting freedom,
crossing lanes upon the freeway.

A Blanket left in the road,
i am left to assume the child who cared for it
was still wrapped within, less cared for
than they cared to be. I sigh.

Approaching this place, the gasoline scent
lingers in the car, past the station, past the church.
down the streets to the house.

VII. Home.
Car Door. Open. Close.
House Door. Open.
the music echoing,
i'm writing my history on the back wall of the internet,
over grafitti left by those before.

VIII. End
And, as the clock ticks, eleven seventeen.

09/06/2004

Author's Note: my last day of summer. I know it's bulky. help me.

Posted on 09/07/2004
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams