Prodding the air in a marionette-ish way, catches the Day of the Mariner in black and white on a major channel, one of the stations owned by Time Warner and soft drinks, I think of watching as a kind of duty of the quarantine and looking away as how it got beautiful/his both-ways veil screaming, live, you crazy motherfucker, live, and organize your shit, he promised both ways. Men cry the fists out of their faces and land on the doorstep cradling an apologetic used television. Some women want appliances. Stationary, masculine. Geisha stay up late tuning all the gray aura in praise of aura geisha stay up a little later pretending she's tiptoeing across a lake to rescue miracles from the bravery complex and hope no more televisions show up on my doorstep. Some women want silence. Phonograph in a climate of heroic tinyness, that gigantic time, a fine cylinder uncoiling the words I'm learning in a marionette-ish way up late geisha way too late to tell him the way she thinks the silence is the best thing between them. But Monk knew. Blue Monk. Light Blue. He drew it to her vague and in charge like a governor or mariner he'd say. It just falls, it fills that hunger for seeing or being someplace else
