Friday, November 17, 2017

The Bug

now, no obstacles for your little morning walk across the table top. up the glass did not succeed, you slid down, repeatedly tried to clamber up again, a tiny red-hulled Sisyphus, moribund in the wintry sun: the meagrier the merrier, the calm and calmier. we all must have some purpose in life. go, a den, seamstress, scissors, the stitching of the hem. we all must wear the corduroys this morning on our little walk to the hillocks. we must abandon all hope, as we slide down the glass panel, repeatedly. how we climb the cordilleras, how we descend, it us alone that we know the weight of every step taken, the size of the shoe, the make, the faded colors, worn undersoles, the skis leaning against the back of the ski cabin. no, we rather sail, bounce off the alligators' backs, snowbound others, stuck in the gondola cabins, the Alpine yodelers, the inbred climbers, up and down, up and down, into the forest lake—skidmarks on the mountain road, anderen, swanderen, hillfart, baumgarten, hochstofffulendorf, the four wheels wheeling emptily. 


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