I can hear you yelling into that sad vacuum/black doom/white doom/radical bridegroom type domestic growl, like, yeah, now it's my turn. Can you hear him yelling into that happy grief, about the three off us, smudged on deluxe happenings like whatever we can afford to jazz... the lord of words that jazz (sure/is) it means everything to him and me and the vacuum has a thing for it too, expands like a wreath when we play in the right key, memory is to frenzy as. I froze. Supposing he wants to tell me something like you're acting so civilized a child could hide in you. Wisdom is bribery and its percussion gets me higher than weed or all the liars I love into freedom, and fame might as well be money or numbers if I offer you my figure will you too, turn every hour glass toward the precaution I asked you for, the kind I specifically requested off the record or outtake
like a detective, reckless spy in a tribal affect, lots of photographs of the threshold and its boldest shadows show us in that cold cadillac embrace like actors, classicists. Loud happy applause. Yeah. Like a tattoo loose in shadows we go forth. And be glad.
