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.