The television stops for new mirrors like a passenger gear in rack/cycles of ice and comeback, but don't really come back, I've had it with people I make at home, and with people who like the pacific northwest more than neon and they think in lessons but you won't learn anything from them, them black habits in a white man's trite radicalism, didactic and careful, and I've had it with the temptation to carry them on my whims like
unsymphonic pigeons who aren't even impetuous enough to be hunted
by their own kind and drawn into finding themselves that way, over there, the third star in the left if you go along the master's glance---
That's the city speaking
The city kinda crawls into you and makes you a part of it---
What are we gonna write about now, we're not working in a post office, not working in a factory, not a ferry ride to an affair to remember-- no more parodies of the yes, yessir
or pitched-down dialog under so much pressure it mutes, hogs its unions, doesn't mind indifference, you know, when it's buying something potion or restlessness-- I saw you in vice magazine wearing pink and vans with thick checkers on them and turned away disgusted, lengthily, love's obscenity looking for the kigo, the season-word, word for springing, for hurry, the key's dream of a surfacing from an entering is brave and relentless like never
As the dance goes faster, as the music might, maybe--
And now we hope that the weather will continue
until we can't tell where the boundaries are, between heat and rivalry
And now just be across me, we'll wake up in the experience
isolated, disassembled, bullshitting, hypnotic foolishness, and do the right thing some other time
