Reasons For Moving

Each moment is a place you’ve never been.
- Mark Strand

my head is still inside
of the bookstore, but i
am inside of the car.
i am reeling in the
shock and static
of the staggering price
of knowledge, and whether
or not i bought the
superior collection of
Bukowski. i better
have, considering i
spent seventeen
hard-earned greenbacks
on it. how it pulls
at my conscience
if i stop to reconsider,
and then it is deeper—
a freezing of the muscles—
a darkness only pierced
by the pale lamplight
in this parking lot.
i worry about
these useless things
daily—my life is
so filled with
these pockets of
pungent myrrh. so

i sit here, outside
of the bookstore,
and i scrawl on
this tiny notebook
what i pray may be
my epitaph; what stands
when my skeleton
no longer bears
this weight. the beads
of fresh rain still sit,
innocent, upon the
hostile surface of
my jacket, and upon
the vacant windshield,
smeared by the storm. there
is nothing left to fight
this impermeable wallow
in self-pity—so i write.
and i begin to feel that,
although this car is
not moving, i am
spinning. and i
am going somewhere,

i am popping this
bubble of bittersweet
perfume with my
chiseled and youthful
fingers. inside, the key’s
in the ignition, and
the air supply
circulates over and
over, every hum
of the engine and
every rush of my
breath. every moment
more the air
becomes heavier
until it weighs
down the insides
of my lungs like
plaster on the walls
of new houses,
the burden
of forced existence.

the car is spinning,
now, it is roaring
through a highway,
but i cannot
tell where it is
headed, or if it
is even going anywhere
that i will ever
need to be. all i know
is that i am moving,
the pen is moving,
the sweet incense of
motion, and once
again the walls of
my cells spring to life,
the tissue in my skull
sings with
the spark plugs,
my spine gains such

and there is
a road before me,
and it is not
the rain pounds and
the lights flash and
the horn bellows and
the metal crunches and
and the synapses fire and
my eyes blink and
i pause—

against the madness,
to the slow yet
unshakable pace of
my lungs—

a thriving,
irreplaceable, and
fleeting step on the
path that stumbles
on in the darkness,
yet moves, surely,
along the span
of miles,
paying no respect
to the road ahead,
slick with rain.
this rhythmic rush
of sutured flesh
is aware
that it is spinning,
always moving,
shifting forward
in the precious seconds
i have left.

© 2008 Andrew David King

Reasons For Moving


Joined January 2008

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