INCIDENTAL MUSIC TO
THE DANCE OF TIME
The Cheerios have caved in, these muffins are green,
the scent of this milk is nauseating. If I think about
any more, I'll get ill. Better to look away - the curtains
hold a certain sunlight, where the moon too had recently
been. Now how, I wonder, can that be?
One pattern of the mind wants to say, 'I've been up an
hour, Eisenhower; another says 'shut up.' Either way I
turn, I'm in a landlocked hell - my ship, stuck in the
harbor, has started to list. How far before it topples
over? And here the noisy trash truck drives by.
Too long in any one place makes me nervous. While
being among others, it becomes even worse. I get
disheveled and my mind loses course; I cannot
make sense and my words distort.