Immediately After Asking...

Reply to an E-Mail.

immediately after asking you how your work is going, I feel stupid it is tantamount to your asking me how my weekend went it passed, I didn't when tied up in these bi-polar weather changes, I feel as if I'm between several chord clusters on a dominant pedal point when, like current cumulous clouds, I sense ever new phrase extensions, without a hope for a cadence. yawning weeks open up like a prairie sunrise, and even though projects erupt on the horizon I find myself grazing for trivial tidbits: a phasal suspension, a transitional dominant, an interrupted cadence, even a thematic variation might raise me from Vivaldi's barking dogs, distant thunder, the same ritournelle, danced under the same vine. although I'm bored with the same bubble, I don't want the squeak I can no longer be put on hold . I cannot remain between yes or no, while actions remain proposed , but not made they've always volleyed louder than words and I'm out of line