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ever dumbening
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obligations: each the size of a marble that _could_ in fact pass through the mouth of the funnel but collectively they _don't_ due to procrastinations and groundlessly fearful wafflings.
and so at work while striding across the crumbly, uneven cement floor (the slight slopes of which channel the streams of fermented grapes and distilled grains that have leapt from shattered silica shells) i wake up to a deep, diaphramatic breath. i return to myself.
or maybe the small red flashing light on the fifteen dollar answering machine from the office supply mega-glomerate store snaps me back with guilt or joy.
so but then reminded, i give a slight shake to the funnel, you know, to let a few more marbles pass. but if i haven't dropped my weight, centered my weight, centered my self, then the funnel instead shakes the hand shakes the brain shakes the little canals and vestibules of the inner ear, "and hits me sending me sideways/ spellbound roundly good for sunshine/ cant help thinking."
a look in literal and figurative mirrors sometimes works. but i often turn myself into a cat with no wiskers (singed by standing to close to the fire?) and so don't sense the imbalance or the closeness (closedness) of the cloister.
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