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| 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 anything while more of the same is boiling over everywhere. When I was younger, whiskey and cigarettes padded the difference. My cartoon anxieties could show through still but they made me the thoughtless and cowardly grouch I'm living with still.
I'll break you like I'm breaking fingers, kneeling over the same ditch where my boyfriend was shot in the small pants. I can vomit like any other on-command bitch, but I won't shit on the body of some boy that's drowned himself a grass ditch just to be done.
"Commit those whose sin is known least, hottest is their flame and their burn. Bury me to the neck and then cast your stones upon my eyes," speak of the canticles long or the lists full up, mundane with trifles, top heavy and under foot are the Ministers of the Footmen. I recall there being a window out among some of the very young pines.
When there's hard rain, no one will speak to be heard. The people will stand on their own because there's someone making them do so. They're standing while I'm looking through their gathering. What I see is framed between two slender trees. A sliver of something that's a little bit human is on both sides of the glass.
I think of this, this bullshit in the halls but its probably a dream in the economy of someone else's escape. Clark Kent winks back and the world disappears until the page is turned.
I think about myself entering this saucer of garbage with purpose, taking my long walk down the short hallway and then turning suddenly right. Tripping into some shit that isn't supposed to be there and then being told that it's a joy all the same. I'm just a tiny cup of tea. I'm an answer to everyone's beast. I'm a fucking tea cup! Hear me, and I'll roar down your fears for you!
I'll name you couch on the sidebar or box like it's been nothing at all. You're out there, smelling like pretend piss, pissing on one wet shoe and it's not even your own. But you're still out there, looking for a box to call someone and I remember your angel. Flat, it's like a herd of stunked up wishes, wishing mister wishes favored more, that around the dull corners... something something something, our toes wet and cool in the lake.
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