The Sheer Grey Bulk of Lead

towards the order of tulip, calliope, then gone 
Great curling toes ripple in the cheap light. The pugilist corp takes the field. They're expecting an enormous bumble-stooge, one with a dour gift and a strident glide in its stride. While talking amongst themselves they also decide that, Some virtues are going to have to be enough. That the massive iron and steel jack-a-man can stare down on their ranks like it's facing a table of cyphers. That this is a dour gift of the morning and that forward into the warm squint of day they'll continue. - Generic Frustration
I am like the power of history, much read but clearly misunderstood. I am like the power of history, the kind of story that puts out again and again. I lean back on a hot summer night and listen to the radio wail. I smack the ribbon of my lips and dry my hands. I am not this worried for the power of every small friend that I see. I'm not this worried for you. I am like the power of history, I worry and carry the groceries to the other side of the street. Lord knows, It's not changing, not fast enough. Not at all like last season and the power of history. Not at all like the horizon in front of me. Where it is that the traditions of the landscape and the street are about to meet. It is there that you will call me building and watch me burn again. The range of my limitless self is not far from there. In fact it's here, just two doors down and on the right. We call this home. It can be released or it can be held by all the staring eyes in all the trash of old Brooklyn. They say, emancipate me with your fever, your bones. Let me know your history. Let's share a dream and the shakes. Let's be gone and righteous with the fat of thy pugnacious hand. Lets be ill informed and grubby merchants of petty schemes and shiftless tyrannies only to be further truthed and more equally unconcerned. Just to be one with the good god damnity of it all, just you say some shit to me. I'll be certain to cry in my many tongues of fault. Just to done with it all again and again, let's be done with this box, its two doors, and the window facing the cool breeze. Let's be done with the reality of the power of history. Let's be done with Brooklyn and France. Let's be done with the ape in his wonder pants. Let's be hopeless bread.

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