2/30 2014

I'm trying something new, which is temporal prompting, a phrase that I made up right this second.  For this year's 30/30, I'm going to try and write from whatever the first thought, image, scent, sound, etc... enters my consciousness when I open this computer to begin... and so-


Hands


An out-of-body experience
should be connected to some
manner of life changing event:
a near death, the birth of a first
son, an incredible ice cream cone.
It should not be this hangnail,
forcing my eyes to regard these hands,
creases and callouses and scars.
These are not my hands.  Mine
are beautiful bird hands floating
in the beautiful bluebird sky.
Mine are young hands, the pencil
indentation from furious scribbling
springs back in seconds. They are
supple and nubile and exciting
and fucking post-modern!  These
rough fingers that catch on the
threads of sweaters, that hold dirt
in the lines of knuckles, that wipe
tears from the cheeks of children,
that caress the soft,
soft
soft
impossibly soft skin running from
behind her ear to her shoulder -
These are a mountebank's tools,
and I watch them work with
leery and covetous eyes.