lately i’ve been jarred by the rapidity of time’s passing, as if woken from sleep, swimming in the restless air- restless, (rest. less.) sleep is a slow death in a fast moving world.

there are three small punctures in the leftmost skin of my right palm, almost healed. grabbed a handful of long thorns to arrest a fall on a wet ivy’d slope. after i pulled them out i thought the dots of red were a nice decoration, though not nearly as evocative as the scrape i obtained climbing through a clouded window ringed with broken glass; somehow it came out looking just like a city skyline.  well, more of an abstraction of one, i never assigned it any specifics. 

my favorite scar is the one on my back, deep puncture and tear from a rusty nail; it looks like a knife wound and still aches and itches dully, on and off, though long since healed.

i am momentarily at rest in the honeysuckle coffin of my hometown (i refuse to give it the big city status it so strives for).  the summer-smell is stifling, the humidity and heat softly strangling like a overlong embrace from a distant relative. it’s a time for silk worms, fireflies, a myriad of ants, potato bugs and hornets. it’s around now when i hunt down the scissors and turn ripped jeans into cutoffs, and sit outside just because.

we came east and down in the wake of a tornado but never quite caught up to it, just trailed after through its path of debris and fallen trees.  storms are much more disappointing on the road, because unless you are driving direct through a squall line, you are through them before you know it.

it’ll be clear tonight, but this has never been a place for stars.