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   t u s c a l o o s a

--- D A V I D   F L O Y D

Morning birds sing it’s been real to the night as the sun chokes the sky of recent rain, dawn uncocks itself, and tucks itself back into its dark place. We go through sundry changes so often we feel exactly the same, experience a sort of heat death in our unrehearsed, dreamy lives. Done with the stale stench of logic and other nonsense like heritage not hate, we kill our flying cockroaches and move our indoor home furnishings from the front porch back into the living room. It’s a wonder we can get any real sleep. Nothing human is foreign. Some theorist will claim words, in the end, have no meaning, and, without irony, he’ll use words to stake his claim. We’re living and dying at the same time; conceivably, we shouldn’t be bothered by all this. One of us needed to say it sooner or later—when we start our unwinding skyrocket toward decay. Infinity can be glimpsed in Tuscaloosa's sundown. It feels like it almost takes forever.

© crossconnect, inc 1995-2004 |
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |