hadn't read this one! i had probably but hadn't... also, which comment do you refer to in your latest spät? icannotseeit

for yooooooooou

In September the winds were high, like tulips in the grander scheme
of things. A pair of geriatric teeth, clattering up the twiggy, torn
carpet of the green steps, turned to him down on the landing, were
unsealed from their thin lips, did smile, and from that he awoke, in
September. A longer sleep would’ve been nothing more than a prolonged
sleeping, he thought, his waking itself a sort of sleep. But awake,
he thought, and he thought. A purple jewel at the foot of a thin
draping chain and the urn upon the mantle its support, its neck, its
wind at the windows.
A longer day was not on any of his thoughts. It was like a thin jab
in the chest, a clock dropped on the walk, it was entrails, sharp and
rusted red as a lost and tattered umbrella below the surface of the
pond upon which most mornings he came to find himself walking,
steadily, like a leaf. Longer days, their seemingly overt and vast
disappearance from his days, his desires, from his shirking place...
longer days, their wind-whistling nooks, weren’t necessitated by the
fluidity, the stagnancy of time. In fact, little to nothing was
necessitated, not at all by anything so increasingly particular, at
best life generally passed him and was passed, like a haiku glyphed
upon a flying pigs hide. As a child he knew this to be some
booger-siphoning hummingbird at his nose, tickling, and he often awoke
to find that he was, in fact, a child.
Seven years of age come September, and he’d yet to know time. Old
man standing at the atm, the boys nose to the glass of the station
wagons way-back. That man was once a child, he in so many words
thought, like an actual eye upon the belly of a bird he walks away,
focused upon the ground, and the station wagon pulls up, takes his
place. That man was once a child. Why is every day golden and
hue-less? Packed w/ despondencies hurtling, a softening task burnt by
the sun, gasoline murmuring thru the windows, a widows serrated
fingertips at the wheel and what allotment or lack thereof might pulse
syllables to their correct beat, place, time? All stubborn
measurements inclined towards the art of inhabiting his dreams and
nothing less, he is often seen habitually etching the patterns
invisibly into his pants, motionless: save for this act, silent: save
for a momentary chirp, awake, save for the assurance that he may, in
fact, still be dreaming.

--
giving a voice to conditions or states of mind normally associated with speechlessness
-Franz Wright

ridiculous! ah take this taste from my tongue, antibiotic, indeed- the amoebas are vanishing from the intestine of my imagination. i may be off to yet another retreat, meditating away on the emptiness in my central channel, leap! ing! in the connections of thought. love isn't an emotion, jaundrily we said, this is not a pleasant invective, love is the space underneath the mealymouth of the morning, itisjustbefore she speaks. creaks. and steps, leaving concrete, turning into, this, all the banana slugs come out for it

i knows, i dropped it for yr considerations, a work of polypy gold, all syrupy inside but sustainable, a sustememememenance, mu nu mu nump!

dooo do do doo do

lord, i hear. i went to the miami shore to leave another drunken message on yr phone. it is still there, in miama, w/ the cats.

--
giving a voice to conditions or states of mind normally associated with speechlessness
-Franz Wright