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| fig.13.03) afterwards, drink don't think, drive, die... |
June's so late to foreign as is every drop of rain It's damp beneath her summer door and above her middle name June will follow May where ever she should lead They'll stumble through her bridal bits, Blah Blah Blah - The Bed of Your Rosy Hips
Now that April's ray is shining her moon is turning too She's dotting all the eyes with tears of rain and waiting here for June (So Fuck You And You And You) - Before The Mouth of ChanceI take the phone out my hip pocket and you brush crumbs off the table. Putting down our drinks, there's a thud, a smash and then a little tinkle. I sit down while you are tying up your hair. The bobby pin in your teeth is black. It's wet with spit when you smile down at me.
"I don't know, Is there any reason for this..."
A pair of tall pants walks around you like its in charge of Brooklyn and half of the haircuts in Queens too.
"I don't think she's ready. Her wings are soft and creamy still."
Finally sitting, "you're soft behind the damn ears. I've waited for this to happen for weeks."
"Then what," I ask... "Is Joanie moving out? Because I don't think either of you can afford this mess."
My pretend city is like the hollow arm of a chair, it sits alone in its own house. The windows there are a dentist who doesn’t know where to start. Plowing into purpose until we meet some structure to hold fast. Earnest as a day, it is this. All because narrative is a chain. In cold days, in any cold fucking truck anywhere. Narrative is a cold fucking purpose on it's way to dig a hole. Its a door that's as true as anything open before it. There are no quarrels to spit upon or bits to acknowledge.
The mistakes that it makes, are all around the corners. They're between the teeth and gums. I’ve walked around here some. I know these teeth and gums well. That's what you'll say between drinks. Then you'll correct my spelling and reach for my knee. But soon enough, we'll see. Its not like this has only happened once.
"So let's read comics..."
"That's an excellent idea. I'll go first," I laugh out loud. "But you have to let me find one, okay."
Now you laugh. "Next week," you begin saying. But then you nod and turn away.
Across the room, busy servers are collecting slips of champagne from the bar. The counter is wet over there. It's like slick wood after a shower.
I intervene, "instead of reading Ubu Roi to each other, what if..."
There's always candles, spoons and binders of wax They're down in the stacks with the April’s, the May’s and the June's in the back. Bent over a bucket that sits by the chair. They're under the board and going nowhere - And Otherstuff
Done tussle, Done team, Done tackle to worth, Raiment of busty absence, Poesy Ohm for surly seventh, This withered pot, This buckle bow, Damn down the lazy balls of green (insert dick joke) - Abundantly Poor or Bad
We're standing in the hall outside the gallery. There are two closed doors and both of them have a white letter S painted along their edges. It's dim, so I can barely make them out. Two of us are waiting here. We're waiting, we've formed a queue. This is what we've done, it's what men do.
It's hot and both of us are sweaty. When I ask, "what do you do?" he runs hands through the sweat in his hair.
"Me," he asks in return. "Oh, I send slides," he answers while making plastic noises with the cup in his hand.
So few boats adrift in this sea of ours, but they are shiny. I get a shiver. Moving an eyeball around to better see his mouth moving again.
He looks down and says, "but I do it differently. People and galleries, just about everybody that you think of can get them. I don't mind saying it, I like sharing."
Black Flag is banging it's way to where we're standing in a row. My voice tries crawling over it, "let me guess, you’re a painter or something with pictures right..."
"Oh not, I’ve only ever been true to Shelley."
"Shelley... What Shelley... Truth is beauty, that Shelley..."
"No not that one. The real Shelley of course. The alive one."
Ignoring him, I ask if FedEx has become some New-Love kind of critique thing. " are all the kids are Skyping about FedEx now?"
"What what," smoothing his sweaty hair again. It's now a slick mat that's tucked behind his ears. "Yes, I see that," looking at my trousers.
"Isn't it funny, pants can be all about position but they're unlikely to be about transposition." I say, mirthlessly adding, "At least, until you've read something about them."
"These are all personal projects. The summer's almost over and these aren't meant to last long."
"All of it's irritating," I gesture back at the gallery. "But it’s better than a well vacuumed horse blanket or those brightly dented kettles left to whistle and whistle and whistle. Not many people here realize but why would they, am I right or am I right..."
"Because everything has meaning..."
"Was that a question..."
"They're just slides. I put them into transparent sleeves that I buy myself."
"Because bread and broken crockery are no longer options..."
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