I Just Can't Fitand it isn't like I haven't tried, it's justa combination of a bad supperand vertical rain plus horizontal windmaking me boneless like this. I justwant you to know that I'm folding.Before I go, how about you? Are the scratcheshealing on your back, like reverse footageas we speak? Have you recoveredfrom eating on purpose the dinnerI screamed was ruined, chompingon charred remains to tryand convince me things were OK,hoping that of the two tales - charcoalis good for your system/charcoalgives you cancer - the former was true.Oh, and you've tried, haven't you?Everything to make this crap into flax.Sorry is the preserveof offhand charmers and the superhumanly resolved,and neither category feels like home,so I won't say it. Close the door after meto dodge draughts, put onyour favourite singer, capturedin miniature on a disc of silver, then,after an hour, ring me,three streets away and static,explain to me that everyone sticks outand mention I leftmy bobble hat -
Ginsberg in the ParkAnd now Im that little lame balloonman,all knobbled feet and goat face.I twist balloon animals from discarded condoms to makea Durex poodle and a Trojan horse.I offer them freely, hoping for nothingmore than a smile to steal, but noone smiles anymore.I steel at autumn, the winter-come-lately,and lounge stiff against a light-and-ice pole.I see him there, Ginsberg, shivering man of rags, and heleers the old man at the chessboard, the one playing with no partner,the one tasting the king and swallowing a pawn.Who is waiting for whom, I wonder?They both look hungry.I startle as the Great Figure rolls a quiet, ruby line by.The emergency is over or not yet begun.In the humdrum silence of the crisp air,I tell secrets and secrets.To the expectant ducks I give awaythe last of you, the little bits held between youandmethat I have no place for in myself.I speak your secrets like an ancient religion,something beautiful and forgotten. I say to the treeshow you told me yo
cardboard.he'd never been any good atfootfallings.day by day in thatold back? when it never workedhe lived off the papers that cluttered the gutter of his doors.he rend them to piecestore them apartshredded each biton the roof of his mouthand let the inkbleach its mark to the back ofhis tongue.he swallowed.and in the hollows of his I. eye,he precluded all these taunts,swallowed these letters to his belly and abusedevery line touch wordhe could get his filthy lips around.it was not surprisinge even when he choked.but with every fallfootfallhe touched a tetea-tete-a-teteAND HOW HE WISHEDfucking wishedhe could remember how toswallow.he spent all his years at the top of the skyline.he spent every mourning on the sidewalk.he'd never been any good atfalling.
wildfire.he had the taste of dust in his mouth. cottonmouth. it was sand in his teeth. he spat himself out in straight lines, clockwork ticks, washboard fluted and frottoir in nature. he made the same noise every time.it was like the ridges of his spine rose with the horizon when he pulled his shoulders back. hard to blink against all that grit. there were bombshells dessicating his skinwork, indefinite and chaotic. shrapnel fearing folk hid underground. he was not that breed. he stood with the army. he stood as an army. their syncopated swagger stilted the staccato of their future deaths. they were not one. they were not one. and he knew that guy to his left would be next to go down. that guy two rows back would die tomorrow. that guy right in front of him was infected. already twitching. it would spread like a fire. jhator deserted the looter's skirmish and he survived. it wasn't shame. it was not shame.
curtainsi tripped over a shrill note on bob dylan's harmonicaand my soul never rhymed so beautifully with blades of grasssprouting through the pavement
elbows + kneesthis is an epiphany,my epiphany ofinsurrectionof a faster faceof dirty glass glances& scattered debris.i wantfor my kindto be the kindthe languished kindunkindledaltlaughablekindburnt & surrenderedindistinguishableet untrainablekind.the kind it takes to crushsand to glass,the heatoh the heat& the cold--it'll coolsettleentropizepolarize&instinctualizethe dead sufficedinsufflatedkindthe kind that burns on contactand blows crisply away.i want to know more than this.the kindof scrapes i've gotfrom cat clawingfrom picking locksfromcrawlingelbows & knees,too manyelbows & knees,worn thin frombruisesperusals& heat(oh god, the heat).the kindof marks i've gotfrom doorshollow floorboardsstairsstairesflashlight incandescent of a shutterclick flameall the staresall the stairsthat i never get to use.this is the kindt