Over Life [2010]

How the Real Sits

Put simply, out simply, his over life. Sending a thought back from here to back back there, as unsure as you would imagine. And throwing grit from the road, pinging off car parts. But up still, more still really, but up still. He makes a thought over and it’s a weight not a sail. So more still really. How the real, and how the real is, is all to be thought of now – this back back now, of course. And a discomfort from the how real road, at the kerb, throwing. Throw your grit from here to here, he’s thinking between them, they rhyme. And sat still the real sits. Between the slabs the dust – between a line down each leg. No one thing. Pick that grit and ping. And still how the real sits. Past a car, just a car, not any car, just a car. And dust, up still from slabs. Up, then still. That dust that finds its between the slabs, and black moss too. The car, the dust, up and still again, slabs found. The car just a and not any, past before the dust. He is still back, back as an arch.

That white about, a flat light, never seen by walking. In a broad sense, sat thick broad on all his sense, on the kerb, by the road, up still. A light that changes less, that’s changeless, still and broad over all his sense. Hot but still, like hot white fog, if it could, and blinding as. Thinking about the sending back of a thought, if it could be done properly, out of the light. Could it be done? It would be out of the real, sent out of this still, hot, white light. Yes if the light were fog, even a thick fog. But no. It is the still, hot, white light, the fog if not a fog, it is the real. But it’s back back from here. Picking a grit and ping. How and only how is left for the real road. Still sat, except for the grits, and the dust, and the black moss.

Well. In feeling and thought. Just a well, not any well. You think that car? That thought would have to go both ways, which it couldn’t. It was a car, not any car, so no. A lot more still really. A lot more. Still, how real, its will, real for a while, as long as the hot sand he supposes. Sat still he sits and for a long long while, turning the back here into back back there and a lot more back back there. He sat still at this his over life. That other car, maybe any car. And this grit ping. Put simply enough, that as all it is. Sending that thought back back there, and the dust finding the slabs, and the grit finding the ping. Well maybe, maybe with a lot more still really. There is a lot of still.

If you think that car and try looking back at a hot sand, maybe taking that any car, not a car, and not going both ways but maybe going one way. Finding that dust, that dust that finds the slabs, and seeing it as a new size, between the dust that finds the slabs and the grit that finds the ping. Seeing it as sand, that size between, and maybe somewhere either way. Some sand that finds the road without slabs, some track, an unreal road. A sand, a broad light, but it’s still any sand and any light. And still how, and still the still and still the ping. How and only how is left for the real road.

More back back. By the kerb with dust that finds the slabs and ping. As much grit as needed for the rhyming ping in the still. It is the real to be thought back to later. But not for now, now in the still. For now in the still it is, with a back to the back, and a hard light, and a hard kerb. In this over life, in his over life, there is still time, just still time.