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| fig.127) Out around the ears, where our old Ford gets. |
Oh Alice, sweet Alice, down the well and in the low field across from the helper-bees. We'll face our frontier with a buzz. We'll cast our piddling stones in the wind and wait. Dream, Dream, Dream, "Cordial and regrettable things, stand solid, unflappable and gummed inside this wonky tide of glue." She's ankle deep in tired feet herself. Climbing from her hole, she's laid her potty mouth in the river by the road.
"Please, the victims aren't even gone yet, Gert! They hover around our ears. Sometimes they'll leave to go away but for now, they've stopped to listen to us groan. They're watching us when we slide under the nest of clouds and the silver weight that they bear. They're quiet below the simple round moon and they're quiet for us now too."
"Those are craven and nasty things. They're easily locked inside of my box or chucked under the bed. What, why me worry at all, is all that I have to say that."
"O' Gert, she aces her tale," that's what she's always saying, now gone and off late to sleep some nights. The eyeballs in her asshole wink. They're counting dirty sheep. Then of a sudden she wakes alone, lashed to a shivering rail. She's covered in bonnets, covered in birds, covered in tears and terrible veils. She's often, she's many until she votes alone. One hand on her cow, one on her ribbon and one bow.
Caution eventually brings us here, to the morning. With a wince and a roll we fall out onto the plain. We stretch our legs and leave our dented pillows behind. The ornament of our rot that's shared by the day, it's like a long train that begins with filth and it ends with filth while hiding all the more filth in it's middle.
There's a violent need that's curled up inside the pouch of Gert's gut and it's been there for awhile. It's as if her achievements where only ever just the feeble approximations of the responses that she's learned since being compelled to ingest all of the hate and the fear from so many of these large and very white institutions that gather all stones from the empty plains. Whether she agree's with Alice or not, these words need their english scrubbed clean. Their walls are closing in. Yet the sleights, deceits and intentional feints that are aimed at dividing us continue to affect their own peace. "The severance of our ghosts is a deal, less their chains," she tells Alice again.
"This is what we'll know from the wind in our faces. It's not about sex, not at all! There's a margin of lastness that laughs whenever we're late or dirty. This should happen less than it does and it should never happen at night or if we're all alone. But our time is irresolute on top of this elephant. Even more so, as the elephant is on top of a giraffe with wobbly legs and a hopeless tambourine."
Gert talks some more about the poor exercise of institutional powers. How they've worked to erode the quality of her time spent alone. "What I do in the back alleys," she turns and coughs. A flip of hair, unconcerned falls free, like it's a wilted flower or a thin flaccid penis. "I've spent years writing what no one loves. My engorged thumbs throb as my hammer blushes, see." She proffers her twisted thumb for best viewing.
"Then yes! Yes to all of it. I'll be your lover, your cook, your secretary, your muse, your editor, your critic, and generally your organizer, Gert."
"Oh Alice, sweet sweet Alice, facing west has never been my problem. Neither has standing up for a fish that's too dizzy to dance or too naked to be wet. My bike will always stay in the rain. So my problem isn't from the west at all. It's from the east, from morning."
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