For Yy - 1/26/2002

Down these corridors
where time has become a prison
We find refuge in simple pleasures.
Girls avert their eyes the brief
Instant you pass.
Drumming table tops rhythmically
fills in spaces of broken
off conversation
Timing perfected by pregnant pauses.
Never fixing the subject
you ramble, interpreting the distant
sweaty figures in sunlight straining.
I sense their movement, grace and poise in
the distracted shift of your eyes.
Here, I sit, back against the sun
Across you stare
straining toward the sun
For three hours.

I guess I haven't been much in communicative mood lately. I haven't paid my visits to the canteen to check out the scene and talk to people that I might stumble upon. In part it's to do with the fact that I try to leave school (it's becoming more and more an opressive place) as quick as possible, and to do with the fact that I don't think there's much to say anymore. "Most men live lives of quiet desperation", remembering the past, becoming nostaligic, trying to refocus - but isn't that what art has to be in order to define it against life? I cannot write in the moment, as energy refined, except within the force-field (already limited and compromised) by time.