Tuesday, November 07, 2006


The worker outside my window wishes I didn't exist. Then he could shovel stones and dirt without worrying about my ears' sensitivities to the sounds of earth being excavated from its womb. Births are always hard though. The other day I saw a full grown politician erupt from the ass of a hippo, and I saw nurses clean it off with brooms and washrags, though it wasn't enough. Another time I saw a rock and roll star form from the high-pitched notes of a guitar. The chords bled to death, another band member set the strings on fire, a pyre for a once great instrument. Lastly, I saw your introduction to the universe, because I can travel back in time with a wave of my hands and the repetition of secret words. Your mom wore a hard hat and your father still had a toolbelt around his waist. When you dug yourself out of there and jackhammered the doctor with your forehead, we could see you'd one day become a construction worker. Now you're outside my window, cracking open the sidewalk with a power drill. You stop, look into the gouge for a few minutes, as if expecting wisdom to fly out, tell you that your work is done.


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