bah! filthy “boxcutters”…
reading this made me feel really tired and almost these tears welling up.
not just the reality but the potentiality of it. it’s always about money,
it seems, even when it’s not. also this
chances are, the nonsense won’t go away, it won’t pack its bags and huff
down the stairs or throw its shoulder out pitching woo, or any old thing
like that. every time, these days, when the cold cuts seem to be warming,
there’s just a pinch or two of jasmine to throw into the mix. creep creep,
you silent words, don’t betray your oxidizing wholeness. keep that secret
locked inside your fuzzy donkey. try the old hat on for size and let the
cordwood moulder. can’t keep swinging through saloon like a whirlwing, it’s
time to set on down and have a drink or two. no more than two, not four.
certainly not five. maybe three, if you’re feeling lucky. what are we talking
about? luck? that’s a foolish thing to be rattling around the cage with.
knock your tin cup back and fold it away. last night the letter B was significant
in a very insignificant sort of way. i thought about things. i visited a
bus too. a very own drop-outter, tune-outter, etc. he lives in a bus, but
he wasn’t always that way. good for you if you can do it. me, i’m not the
living in a bus type. i like staking out the middle space. where it’s possible
to be and do the things that make me happy in my little nutshell. methinks
the chores are beckoning. calling me back to the good old days, when all
the secrets of heaven were oping up. there’s gotta be a middle ground between
nothing and madness. or so we hope. and where’d this bump on my head come
interior thought: match these crowded thorns with icy tentacles of firm design
irks out a slow time with the hamptons swigging their sweet cigars–exploding
cigars. they haven’t a clue what lurks in the fiery deepnesses. manalive,
what is there? the man with his own cue stick unfolding, the non-belligerent
bouncer/soundtech chick who kept busting out her starsnstripes when she got
tripped, or so she said, or so she said she never (except once or twice)
threw someone out (except once or twice) and she was in my face so close
that I was startled, in spite of my whiskeyed state, startled. silly one,
there’s that so-called muffin, and then he says, “hello!” and that was the
end of that conversation about the redress. gurgle gurgle gurgle. glub glub.
it was a non-weekend for sure. not so much because of the three days, as
the just non-doing of anything in particular and specifically at all that
could be remarked upon. after sweet thursday, there was just a tiny moment.
(sweet thursday, being a good evening all round, with all the spots seeming
to fall into the right places. didn’t feel thorny in the least. or smudged
or thin around the edges.)
storming about the place (these storms are displaying themselves with untoward
frequency… can’t keep the heat off any longer) with an iron pot on my head,
waving that uncowed
wooden spoon. so that when all the heels were drumming on the skylark. hippocampus
is a long way from home, wouldn’t you say? ….