Styles of Waiting

Once upon a rude rude box

Lift this wheel Lift this wheel my legs are going to fold My horse is in the hey hey hey I think this hole is going to stay stay stay So lift this wheel lift this wheel the sand is so unkind I'd look you in the eye but I haven't got the time time time - O' March Hatter at the Swing of this Field

Oh hey, the happy happy. The dark lined curtains are drawn, tied, and held extra fast. The lurch of it in the fake noon of a midnight sundries shop cowers like a pie of lazy glut. Glue, rows and rows of handsome blue bottles on the narrow shelve's behind the plate glass. Piles of sticks and old blind tissue cram this stupid puppy space.
Next door is gloomy too there's hardly any light at all. The old day's hunkered away behind some old light that's just hanging in a self defining pall of notchic catatonia. Crowds of math putter filing in too stand under the cheap seats that are under the wooden clock in the middle. This math gets brittle and then it gets bent when it's too surly. It moves around in circles when its robe opens slowly.
Damned arsenal of blindness, damned roses in their frame. Inching further along the quarrelsome trail of my innards. Following the dregs and spit there. The counter is closed, it's door is chained.
Storm of reverie to teach, stewed eyes agog in TiredLand. This is our talk. There's work here, there's work no more. They've moved the season to the left, now it's too dry. Doors for work when the time's on. Not in the day, not green like this.
I know I know.
Than why'd you ask?
For the sleep'n all. Open that sash and pull me the light. This bottle's nearly spent.
Done to near stump stump stump, a taste of dusty wine, Crabby knees pop away like knobby pills.
If only we let it.
We can and deeply too.
I know.
At the door there's a fern of flowers and a gathering of guychic. These are the dudes in the round hats that really and always talk about the ferns and the flowers. They're saying, It's the first of the bloom, that it's the riches that fade, 'cause. They're saying, First at hand is first to leave, that's why. Good bye virtue, That's what they've said.
Then they said, Don't not so fast Dude. Stand this matter up to tall. Stand here this day in and of this day too. Watch as the pioneers go go go, just watch and they'll come. Then you'll see friend, they're blood and all.
Only to be virtue at the expense of virtue's sake.
We can't wait, not for more of this. Let's wrestle in the flesh. Let's stand and wait on this matter of virtue and it's aim Sir Bang. Let's throw this best widest net at the long snake of its answer.

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

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