Or a particularly candid accomplishment. There's a man who smiles backwards in a choir and yanks you into serious alert/detour, toward one answer to the land question...I don't need any of yours
leaning along the harvest of possible things: it is damaged and as far as
some blue pyramid home negro southern different color meaning hip shit, a loss of tension would kill me
the impossibility of trapping my own gain, is how I survive
in this dizzy cabinet to where I can't tell if I've made it, like reached the mountaintop, which is a sloppy destination to begin with, it's cold up here, I really can't stay either, the breeze makes me coy and radiant. Radiant because I desert him when I intend to traipse, for the sake of mild people, and then to tiptoe, for major things are trembling with scarcity in their motion like Tokyo lips, vagrant swells of water called floods, or typhoons, testaments to the loneliness of late capital, a loan, an abundance we've borrowed from shame or Mr. So and So I have the blues for walls, but I don't want to look out either, onto your plot, which is damaged, I've never even touched a loom, or at least I can't remember what your hotel smells like new pens and music videos: I go, you stay, two autumns and a broomstick. The fact that this is ever accurate is a nuclear disgrace, somebody blew up America, he's right. I'm willing to loot every Walmart forever, traipsing, tiptoeing, plugging all the wasted stereos into lampposts and having that life you call a party. And when I look up again, our son is done looking mean and impressive. He is holding up a shy looking sign which says: Now he plays the drum, now he stops, and grinning like the robbery is over and they got away without his muses.
After making love we hear footsteps.
