There is a spike in the air a distant thrum you call singing and how many nights this giganto, torn tuned, I wonder if you hear me I mean I talk to myself through you hectoring air you’re out there tonight and so am I for as long as I remember I talk to the air what is it to be tough what ever do you mean how mistaken can I be, how did I miss it as I do entirely and admit very well then I know nothing of the world can see it now can really see there is a spike a distant thrum to the empty o’clock autumn litter it’s ominous, gratuitous the asphalt quality these feelings it’s Sunday in deep space and in the breeze scatters, felt presences behind the hole in the day, sparks ominous spike I’ve not been here before, my voice is looking for a door this offing light reaching into maw what does it mean to enter that room the last time I remembered it an un gathering every piece of open sky into it the deep chill inventing, and is it comfort the cold returning now clear and crystalline cold I standing feet on the ground I frozen and I can feel it to meet incumbent death we carry within us a body frozen ground what does it mean to be tough or to write a poem I mean the whole vortex of home buckling inside a deep sea whine flash lightning birth storms weather of pale blinding life
Those notes are fetching when they touch the ear. It's true, there are more tears in sand than water. "Come out and play," the song's refrain in my head, my sawdust showing. My heart, your eyes is what the day made.
There, the notes, the song, the besidedness to live on Saturday, to walk out, wanted to, right out the frame. The sadness, gas pumps, sunshine on oil, that crow overhead destroys the picture. Everything faking it so badly.
What's so wrong about the real, so off with clarity, dumbfuck, shirttail-hanging scatter-brained word. Shattered-pane world?
The whir of the camera inside pictures but we want the voice to lift, don't we, across the mini-plaza to where? How about pulling taffy for a living or a rabbit from one ideal-ology to another. That's the trick isn't it, parallel lives?
You know, here a dumpster there a Dane. On the street I see birds, bricks, clouds I see a friend getting into her car I see myself in the puddle I see. And even if we pray to remain unabated, a minor chord can sometimes reconnoiter the most distant thoughts camouflaged in lace and literature.
O western wind let's not decorate the light with roseate diadems, plumbago shadows in the rushes. Haven't we heard enough from the birds, their annual trips and cross-talk? Listen. The arc of a rocket is louder than a rainbow.