Saturday, March 28, 2009

Poetry is Expensive 2

Approximating a new P.M., a sudden mistake producing waves of grain and raccoon activities to rival not only the erupting magnificence of the drunk mastodon waving its tail over the ferns, but also the poor man selected as replacement for the tiger. A right way for everyone, a calling, a punching bag barely ahead of our reaching fists but just enough so as to dodge any indiscretionary clucking telephone or lame reel like a film strip letting the light bulb through. Germany, advancing and how long have I asked to be refrigerated shuttling from line to line as such that we no longer have radio to live through, no TV to practice memory skill. We reason as the world prepares gumbo and gammy hens, blood meridians where place asks place to be so barren and inhumane. Allowing us to go free, allowing us to winnow our way towards distant and exotic lands where responsibility can be measured by those who don’t know us.

Believe me I laid on my bed this morning of no consequence. Of no sequence asides from differential equationary partition vision of imaginary happiness, and lines of inebriation partnering with Japanese flowers as bulbous as the bread bellies and their feet sauntering. As Richard Wright Pulitzer dustballs, as part of the menial gym rat lame duck bridal shower pole position. Help me believe this is the fire side gospel, this chit chat macabre violent spasm piece together, the system of puzzlement over Broadways expanded as highway trucks ram their diesel engines through pavement and pay dirt

I wash. I bring you my notes.