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| fig.980) The Seaman's bell and the incense from the choirs nest are together. |
Foliated and compressed finally drawn from the water, from the weathers wet side. Bias is its own place, anchored to the sick sacks of blood we are. Open the line of this street down its middle, right between the lights. Then wait, the long night through. Whoa Oh a Whoa Aye...I'd love you twice as much tomorrow. Then the clasp at the other end breaks and mad as the moon over the moors, King Ovid-Pants agrees. While my fingers continue to fumble, the pendant slips its chain completely. Sliding down into the place between your breasts, King Ovid-Pants. Maybe it seeks a trove of amphetamines there or a place where Stan Brakhage might wait.
On the day, we're marching up and down the length of my room. The numbers we have are loudly shouted. It's as though all of it, the math of simple things and the quiet youth of its being built or consumed can stand for something. It's like they're an arcane thesis for some lost standard or litmus. Like the bottle between us, sitting on the board.
We aren't married to this idea. We found it one day and liked its speed. The projector ticks; slap, slap, and us admiring the scale of the wall from my ratty ass bed.
We'll have all of it, nerves of the whole, everything getting shot through the same famous cannons barrel. Soon to be harvested into loose sacks, with a side of spoons and the odd boneless tooth. Once you've gone, my wings go cold and blue. I unbuckle, bracing myself I reach for the bourbon. The old bottle goes back to its somewhere drawer with the keys and receipts.
We'll have all of it, nerves of the whole, everything getting shot through the same famous cannons barrel. Soon to be harvested into loose sacks, with a side of spoons and the odd boneless tooth. Once you've gone, my wings go cold and blue. I unbuckle, bracing myself I reach for the bourbon. The old bottle goes back to its somewhere drawer with the keys and receipts.
Let's sing a radical song, a few hastily strung words for release. Let's sing the fire of our joy. Let's go bowling tonight.
Final Math:
a once is a just once more, a MOMENT at the most,
LIKE eggs on a plate, they're waiting for the toast,
They're dying to be old and then it Happens,
oNCE IN A WHILE, or for the most part,
unless the MOMENT has gotten lost,
Running for the train ALONG the Parkway's cobble
Running from the flames INSIDE the choked and dirty Widows
WHAT DO WE HOPE FOR
BEFORE our SHACK, burns to the ground and the river fills the street
BEFORE THE HORSE goes and falls into a hole to DREADFULLY die,
WHAT DO WE WANT MOST
UNDER the STARS, under the STAIRS
We'll do it over and over, GOING softly till one of us goes...
and then patient as spiders, THE STARS ARE ALL GONE
There's never enough time to spend waiting for toast
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