nothing happens
day-to-day but months
pass in saturation,
without a minute
to spare, without
any room left to move.

all relative, the book
i gave to my mum, the
dedication three years
gone, the party, the
senior year, the girl
who lived in my home.

the new job, the newness
the freshness, the finn
the bobbed hair and
flamenco dancer and the
dutch woman with scoliosis.

big party; big party
with the parisian with
the stomping boots, the
pregnant downstairs
neighbors and the broom
thumping dust up from my

floors, sending away my
intemperate guests into
the night, into the night,
where the clubs still
churn churn churn churn
into the chilled morning.

the morning -- i have such
delicious memories of mornings
sitting on the bench before
my dorm -- from staying up
till the dawn, never waking
before the dawn but always
stringing on stringing on

feeling the humidity
pulled over like a sheet.
a cool morning sheet wrapped.

walking along the mall
walking along the mall
sneakers turning dark from
dew moist dew chilling toes
but walking as the rubber toe
of the shoe squeaks squeaks
its summer song in the dawn.

how does one know if we are
present or past? how does one
know how close to the evil
genius we stand, how he mocks?

did i die the moment things
started becoming weird? such
constant incessant coincidence.

time being relative; time to
talk to robb, ask him; time to
talk to mark, ask him; time to
talk to rick, ask him; time to
talk to kath, ask her.

how does time work and who is
playing what game on whom?

©1997 Chris abraham