Even your idols' adulthood is a squalling orphanage, phony display windows all over pretending whatever you're looking for--I won't be in their coop of ordinary theories and beer breath, gives me the chills just watching. Thou shalt not worship idols.
I make myself a list of chores oriented against it and loving you is on it adjacent leaving you-- nothing to prove is on it. It's always scandalous when it's right, renews me like an endless spool of magnetic tape I kept the sound of me crumpling the list-sheet to make a cushion in the morning raga I'm listening from with all my enraged serenity for the skipped phase jah punished you when you forgot time doesn't exist, only rhythm and change -- his famous, by now, come-back as this addiction to the rhythm we have, this purifying infection of a habit untamed by what doesn't exist--
Check the list for ascendants from the great getting up morning and name them how they seem, like orphans, mature out of fear, wise out of disgust for what it's really like. Check the so good it's bad column in the swarm, it's shrinking to here--me meeting me this savage/domestic with the cleanest kitchen in all of Manhattan and the most reclusive-to-be-universal mind, I mean really grimy and beautiful like the truth be whatever you're looking for at the time. I listened to the rest of the cassette, the roar of jets and shells mixed with the sounds of birds and bells, revving car engines, skin on skin. It was like a set-up, his music was. To set you up for disappointment in order to impress you. Irresistibly mundane. And it works for us. We long to practice humanity in a way that resonates as our own
