 |
| an alligator pas de deux |
 |
| america is a global terror network. but let's not worry about that. |
 |
| america insists. ok, waddayagonadoo. |
 |
| brother sun sister moon |
 |
| cementary hum |
 |
| cetashus |
 |
| when i say you gotta go in your crib now comet he runs and jumps in the the big bed. |
 |
| copp rescues mickey maus from death by water after i throwed him in. |
 |
| dance of hallway souls |
 |
| a dog and pony show |
 |
| dogs are the best confessors if you aint religious |
 |
| envy of a fur coat is misplaced |
 |
| the eye of a comet |
 |
| fur arcades |
 |
| hedy lamarr |
 |
| hildy and her gator dance |
 |
| i believe one day the freedom fighters will win. naive, right. |
 |
| i remember those night volcanic roads in santorini, the sheer drop with a boneyard of cars, the drop in our groin, the intake of precipice. |
 |
| is that smoke or cloud. |
 |
| it is both. |
 |
| it seems dumb but i just thought freedom is only a struggle |
 |
| it's really weird, the thugs below are silent, burning incense. |
 |
| little prince |
 |
| looking up to mister cuz he's a genius at life |
 |
| loss of the unlived resides |
 |
| a good nose for trouble |
 |
| partying a little death where my diving platform waits |
 |
| later i will leave the maus adrift and you will say that's ok, he was already washed up when we arrived. |
 |
| the hunger for story is not a real hunger |
 |
| it's a fictional hunger |
 |
| but like belly hunger it can only be temporarily assuaged. |
 |
| and then the quest must begin again. |
 |
| Add caption |
 |
| the body knows no theology but it knows john donne implicitly |
 |
| the children watch the executions for training |
 |
| referring to the comedians |
 |
| the rime of the golden mariner. |
 |
| the school of waiting. it's closed? |
 |
| tomoro we resume the struggle |
 |
| i said, we gotta hide out here, in the west. the midwest. |
 |
| we only count our dead, |
 |
| bring what wounds freedom. what wound freedom brings. |
 |
| who knows who but ill be, |
|
|
|
one narrator reader alone in the cramped foreground of somewhere vast and vague, paraphrasing gerald murnane.
No comments:
Post a Comment