Wednesday, April 24, 2013

a long day of pillaging...


Longboats are crashing into the shore, spilling raiders, who are interested in careers in finance, in social reform, in proliferating methods to raise test scores all the while searching for footholds in the steep pages of the New York Times. Even as we, looking back, want to find our ghosts, the revenants who will condemn us and thus allow us a place in the stupid story—and yet what we find is again only the bright purple flowers that only bloom for two weeks in our back yard, our spouse’s bare feet which tap as she speaks, a dead bee, and all these pieces exploding out booming, shifting between meaning something and not. What I want is probably not even worth it if I can imagine it; it’s just another trap. So if you imagine a time, say “now” or “25,000 years ago” an eight-hour span dissipates into itself, into you, into the idea of Vikings returning to camp after a long day of pillaging.