Through with the Motion of Song

fig.35.09) the bastard's wings have legs

"Two poems were made with stale smelling plastic and balls of tape that's been long dried up. Here they are now, about to be said. Beetless, less beets, without bread or tears we are bottled hammerless and away. Footless, less feets, without said years to sleep in our garden we are roused and then gone again," to be done from nowly, to be done with it soon.

"Words I know, I know, inside the wall of this page. I want to be that girl in her hat. Knowing guilt famously, being floppy as an old lung. My ice cream not melting, if I were a certain girl in a certain hat but then these flowers couldn't be smelt or dealt." While I don't agree that Silverstein was examining the taxonomy binding any of the social structures affecting him, I believe that he was a keen observer of his own actions and that he recognized his own passivity in the face of the sweeping cultural changes being made throughout the postwar period. Quite literally, he was unable to help himself while the landscape around him was churned and spewed by the countless forces of people powered math/magic. This is the anxiety that he shares with the Giving Tree and the Missing Piece. His anxiety repackaged as something ambiguous but also something kind of self incriminating, like a burnt tongue or a paper cut.

"Because normal is, loving it as a girl in a hat might do, this would be exceptionally fine by me! It's not doing what you're told or growing to be old that makes that girl beneath her hat so true it's the bandage on her knee." So like a heathen love song for trees both distant and blue, I want to know this feeling. It makes me want to be underneath my own blue hat talking about the past.

Comments

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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