12 minutes before tommorow and a head falls back to thoughts of yesterday and to today and to a glimpse of future now or later. numbers:racing:ideas:drifting and an uncontrollable desire to say words. keep talking. nursery rhymes keep comfort close. the clock falls faster than time, standing still.

12 minutes before tommorow and the world might change. i might wake up to neon flutter laced hologram birds with bitmap songs and annimated flight. i might create it. i might chase my tail through a spinning drive, make myself dizzy with fear and puke ad nauseum. i might wake up to minnesota rain or wisconsin field or saturns mouth with his children, dripping from his jaws and melting in his grip. i might wake up in 12 minutes from a horrible dream where i can't turn the lock. i can't see my path through the blur and i can't outrun the wolves. i might see you and we might pretend we don't know what we see.

12 minutes before tommorow might make all the difference in the world. so i watch and i wait and i know these twelve minutes have the potential to change my definitions -- and in 12 minutes there might not ever be 12 minutes again. the bombs fall over a city of lost children and the chromatic sculpture of uncle tom might tell me to climb back to see what it was really like. an atomic cafe with xray visions of my skull, empty or full, and if intelligence could be photographed i might be sadder than i expected. i might look at you or you or you and i might say that in 12 minutes nothing will happen. or in 12 minutes the sky will fall. lock myself in a room with a russian poet and drain her of winter gray. buy her an overcoat and understand irony, swallow nerve gas or make sense of analogy. i might be more subtle in 12 minutes.

12 minutes before tommorow the sun might eclipse my sight. i might go blind. i might go deaf. i might find god. i might eat human flesh. i might smash glass, flash through infinity or transport my spirit sans in a fully automated grand national with white wall tires and a v8 super deluxe. i might see my raven nevermore and speak to lost lenore of floor planks to death. i might catch light. i might travel space. i might see sound -- hear motion -- touch my own scent. touch yours. i might crash down on the pryamids or bury my mind in rocks, slice her throat in a desert, or carve my name in plaster.