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Thursday, January 19, 2017

Flown

FLOWN



in the drawer left the manila folder hand. folded, manhandled, there must be a handle at hand, nearby. a handle? a windup handle for a gramaphone? yes, the record collection scattered to the eight winds, lost, abandoned, exiled, murdered. a deft hand. sliding. a glider. the wind in the boughs, high, perhaps a kite is being flown—like the festival of early boyhood? the Koinobori. down the stream of oblivion then, hands, palms up, down the river of no return: on your right, Heraclitus, the dark one, the gloom and doom; on your left? a woman? ethereal. white, too white, pinkish, pinker than your dark pinkness, gliding, her nipples erect above the surface of the flowing water. your nipples visible also. in the distance, the nipple-tops of the nihon-mountain, the snowhite nipple of the Fujisan, all of us flowing down the river, indistinguishable, replaceable, unindividualized, depersonalized, unidentifiable, folded, unfolded, fetus-like, manhandled, left in the long forgotten drawer, with the layers of dust accumulating. the manila folders of our lives: Palimpsest.












boris gregoric C 2017.

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