been a while since I rapped ya

January 3, 2007 at 3:05 am 2 comments

The Moot Hours

From my perch I do not need a clock,
the evolving sounds of the streets below
tell me when the day is starting.
And the hours of the middle of the night,
like those hours in the middle of the day,
are a wash, merely the hours between
a start and an end – and those,
being the only hours we truly need,
are marked by the roar or silence
in the streets below me.
And if I drew these blinds,
the golden light
would not tell me if it were dying
or birthing, and the moment would be moot.
These hours have been trying,
taxing on me like weight on a bridge,
dipping me down,
but not enough to notice with eyes.

Below, I trace a car with my ears,
from the lower numbers to the higher,
as it lashes out against the quiet
like an accidental revolutionary.
Someone is angry down there,
and without enough time to discuss
or ponder or develop new ideas
for this very new situation,
and simple “honk” works,
and rarely does a sound have a meaning,
let alone so many of them,
but it means that there are people
going to one place or another,
vigourously.
And this only happens during those starting
and ending hours,
and so I do not need a clock
to know what time it is.

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Irony in that

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