It all happens as you open the book, as you tell me I’m an open book, and the men outside the door are enjoying their lunch, fixing what’s broken in the courtyard. The maids have all run away with the milkmen. It happened a century ago, before all the capital was bought up.
we are living on top of each other
it happened then in preparation for now
walking dead through hell unaware
grabbing up all the work
our bodies smell and get angry
a lot to go into
middle of the story is
the true beginning and catching up
Think positive thoughts always and don’t think a fucking direction different
The babies have begun to talk
Your thoughts mark the dawn of a new millennium and it’s harder to fly a plane straight these days. Thoughts fired from a bough, out the elbow of the bend, she’ll be comin’ around the mountain faster than you can sink a jet liner through the clouds and into the face of a boldfaced lie.
I have been told I’m an open book. This means I generate those positive fucking thoughts I was talking about. Trips to the cemetery should probably be kept to a minimum. Open hearted is what I’m trying to say, and though I’m scarred up and have some milage, what is held unexplained inside wants to talk, wants to start somewhere which is why cracking open a book and beginning to read, it has also been you, in a way, who has done the writing. Either you write before or after because the war will have you occupied. Everything flies your direction while you survive, while you are spared, while you duck behind a wall, while you start talking to yourself. Everything comes at you. Even the wall.
The guys attract some of the women that attract the guys. The snake eats its tail. The woman is here with her designer handbag with her mouth open calling out: “Danny! Danny! Danny!” yes, Danny, when will you return? Her five year old son is missing. Now he’s back. He was hiding behind a coatrack. So now we can all relax. Remember what that was like?
Someone has passed out because of the bright light. Someone else goes so deep into the forest of their dreams they’re comatose and hooked up to a bright machine.
Still we are preparing for something, maybe something big, maybe just to start all over, or speak a new language for the first time waiting for the apple to drop like a hammer.
Faith in self and how self is a centipede. We are going to get through the string of days and say good morning, good afternoon, good evening—I hope you don’t fuck this one up and you get your shit together. You’ll just have to excuse my mouth.
Drinking under the beer tree in the park as a mist descends, never envious of the frisbee as it flies, it flies never up a sundress or anywhere… Any given dumb day is a good day, a good day to be alive.
The family dog will help you with I don’t know what but nevertheless you’ll get the idea, you’ll break the bottle against the side of the boat. Rituals are living symbols when you don’t feel like drawing much.
There there now is guitar tree, honest tree, swing tree, and others. Bicycles brought us up here on a detail that was left out until now, beautifully, a ride over like a hatched duckling, real, for real.
Guitar tree is being renamed… I was born in March. Guitar Tree is now skinny teenage boy tree. Fully down. Fully downloadable.
Plants are watered with a politeness of thank yous that serve as reminders of where you came from—deep south, deep north.
Words, you find, are things and can build sweat lodges and drive thrus. May I take your order for as far as you can think it out until it comes out of the microwave of good intentions?
Yes, here is my order of things.
I make a list
fumble fumble along
broken lined ass poetry
The owner of the building hires someone else to act as landlord and all the residents who think bout it are unhappy for as long as they pay rent they are hiding their drugs and hopes from the likes of these pretentious would-be cops with numbers of pigs on speed dial. Any moment, four or five is pressed, a warrant for arrest. Nothing any more is owned. Everything streaming with ads from sponsors. Corporations are not people.
spill the machine’s blood
rip open and see its oil
wait for it to turn color on you, true blue, false blood, silk stockings…
now you get to know the real me past the false ID…
so what’s wrong with you?
what’s wrong with you?
what’s wrong with you?