DAILYSOMETHING

Secondhand

What is it hums the static
A white wall, a shadow, lines of gray
What, and with a stomach pain, what
Is it that hums the static

The seasons come with the precision of the secondhand
The mornings tick and be
The night falls slowly, but I know
That in 13 the cool will blow down from the roof

Everyone asks you
What they should do to be happy
Or what will make them happy
Nothing

But you let them know that it is an important question
They’ve let absinthe back in the kingdom
And you think of spending a week’s pay on a bottle
To drink and pretend that you dance with the greats

Things come with the precision of the secondhand
Stopping in random places to look at the passerbys
Does not impede the momentum of minute history
Separate and disinterested down the dirty steps to the metro

You wish you had sunglasses
So you could sit in public places
And stare at the faces of strangers
And a month later you find out that even that has been done and recorded

You fill yourself with food and with time spent doing what you want
And you ask yourself the important questions over a cup of tea
But when you cry at simple stories
You realize the structural inconsistencies of the reality pyramid

The violence in your dreams escalates
And the presence of water everywhere is incapacitating
But forgotten dreams shouldn’t bother anyone
There are always cigarettes and tea on cold staircases