Since everybody gets tired they can wave at cars.
Wave as cars go by, not even the spray of jelly.
Butter is moving into jelly on Atlantic.
The carpet is a galaxy, next door: a guitar ass.
Still, she fiddles in the studio. Draws a shark, uses strong grammar, bites down hard when it is time to concentrate.
Panting like a tiger, glowing in parts, a light.
Turning into butter.
Lights long or lives long or is long.
Leaves me cold, leaves me cold, leaves me cold.
Maybe all the danger and conflict has made me more present, delivered me in a sound like a large gray wool sock on a boy’s tiny hand.
You can’t imagine how fast friends drift apart until they come together again over some tragedy. Scream in the street.
The slow blue heart.
The slashed museum.
The slice a day.
You can count on me, you can count real low while humming.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…
No no no, count the money, the drugs, count the fumes.
You can pursue an exploration of your enjoyment, you can sing into rags to dampen the sound.
You can achieve a new purpose, a new feeling of togetherness with yourself.
You can have a steady knowledge of the bang, the bolt of thunder, the burning roof, the rags in your mouth, the stew for bigger fish to fry.
I might scab up before help comes.
Do you need help I didn’t know you needed help.
It just came and ate up my skin.
So may I soothe you with medicines, with ointments, with stories?
Let me tell you a story: a story of rubbings.
Are you all you aimed for relief?
I’ll tell you a story if you skip the sensuous massage, if you rub the stillness from machines, if you grow a steady parade of babies.
If the best people have babies, if a home is schooled, if a horse is dead in a barn with a gunshot to the head.
I just want my babies, a wind from my mouth.
This area of my face remembers the babies (points to cheek)
An endless blemish, there is fragility in that slope of laughter.
A place for you -- a soft place for you.
Tweed and silk?
And the softest orange felt dress.
And the stores with so many things that you can enjoy.
The people have worked so hard to make things that you can enjoy.
A little better love than this love, a light still, really, now you are reaching into me.
Is baby going to cry until its curtains? Is baby reading into things because of the purple medicine? Is baby reading for the stabbing pains in the religious scene?
Still, whatever else I’ve done I’ve drowned. Please remember to drive into the water of unknown depth without the orange felt dress.
The dog’s upper lip kept curling in his sleep as I watched it sleeping next to you.
My bent frame is alive.
Decay is a salutation, I welcome it to my face.
An expert dives into the warm oil. Amber oil.
I reduced my contact with others to a minimum. I have to comb the knucklehead from my hair and get on the bus to you.
Yes, yes you do have to do that.
Yes, and I have to pursue this wedge between us, and make that rumble because a child is getting very wet and cold somewhere.
A child needs a total makeover, a lot.
Fox vanilla float air shock.
I’ll have you or I’ll bite you.
I’ll have you.
Rainy, cool, people come and go.
A mutual sunshine event of scalloped deals.
This time I’m asking politely if you do it, if you’ll rub the hate out of me.
He splashed acid on his heart.
When a clock runs 87 hours you feel alone.
In my arms: an earthling. There’s a stillness in the house and a flutter in my chest. Men laugh for what is here or less than what it takes to rub themselves out.
Self-destruct sunshine.
This time I’m asking politely if you’ll take me away from myself.
Sing into your father’s putter like a rock star.
But America was self-destruct sunshine.
Your lips may taste like amber but I am not going to take off my top for your business associates.
Nothing will prepare him for the war in his own fur.
Nothing to spoil my mouth or the cave I spent shelling.
I just want to buy things. I just want to look at all the stuff. I just want to share these ideas with you. I just don’t know why they hate us. You are scoffing at us. You love me.
You love me you know it is written in the smoke above the house on fire.
It always seems like I’m headed somewhere when I’m not.
What I serve, what I fear, what I dream is this: who is calling me in to serve?
Well you do waddle and you do.
If something really did happen, if lives were lost, if there were carnage and the attendant aftermath. What would shopping cure?
Go to this blue station in the loam, proceed, the cash, oceanic: use this address, earth to zoo, my magic is the clownish bracket.
Do you mean what purpose does it serve?
Help me remove myself from myself.
Words into words.
A whirl?
A delicate spasm on your neck where I kissed it.
Are you all you aimed for relief?
If you’re not here when I get back I certainly hope so.
