If I listened to the things that you said
Everything would fall apart
If I did all the things that you do
Everything could fall apart
Let's not listen to the things that they say
Everything can fall apart
Let's think about our actions before we do them
Everything will fall apart
I got nothing to do
You got nothing to say
Everything is so fucked up
I guess it's natural that way
Everything falls apart
The scars upon the day
are harsh marks of
tranquility. I scarcely
know where you are:
awake? After lunch, a
Sunday snooze? Is
the ivy weeded yet?
Let the frost do
it its way. Smile, my
dear my dandy, when
you see this. That's
not much to ask, though
no smile on order
is quite the spontaneous
real thing. The day
grinds to a halt all
dusk and yellow rose.
What's a hundred some
miles or so? Or -- let's
see -- fifty hours?
Time of all things
is most variable, a
seed you plant to see
what in the world
it is a seed of: time,
hours compressed into
a kiss, a lick, or
stretched out by a
train into an endless
rubber band. All we
know is that for such
as us it is not end-
less: is time too to
be found of an atomic
structure? I
would be the last to
know, busily waiting
to see and smile
as you smile and bend
to kiss. Why soon it
will be only forty-
nine hours, cubed in-
visibly like the sec-
tions of a creek.
A record spins,
these keys go clack
why soon I'll see
you and soon you'll
see me. I can enjoy
the here and now
but, wind shivering
clear day, I live
and love to anticipate
my hands on you and
yours on me, the
hours flow by and
a white gull is
black against
November evening
light, expressed,
it seems, from
late yellow grapes.
The catamaran cruises across this sea-highway. This coffee tastes like dirty water; the label on the bean hopper beautifully misspelled as "expresso". Airplane seats with stale upholstery, half-read sports previews, peripheral glimpses of children's dayglo sneakers to distract. Bill Fox's simplistic echoes in my ears as the waves hit and the ride begins. "This morning we are born again from the womb of a dark, dark night." His salvos soothe, a nursery-rhyme restored to consciousness. I have passed age 33 1/3, leaving only 45 and 78 as milestones to reach. "This morning I am free again to touch my own true love." I think I am the only person on this boat who is not blonde.
Image from Stan Brakhage's Mothlight. A double IPA with Galena to bitter and Cascade for aroma, plus two rounds of more Cascade dry-hopping.
