It may take a pastiche, a patch-work, a mixed up swathe of bastards to make right what’s in need of fixing. Have you ever seen a house, cousin, that’s not been bled of life or serenity that’s not starched and stagnant and dead? Have you ever seen a row of houses rotting, location breeds location, brother, we’ve all got neighbors and they’ve got shades to keep the inside apart from the out. But have you ever smelled a city, sister? A whole constant wrench of sour mashed together, stinking as one united solution. There is no one way, I say. We’re people, particulate, until we dissolve into only matter in the grave. Though this is not so sad, we resist it and smother our noses from the noxious breath of others, we keep our own inside, and cough into our elbows and remind our fellow men to do the same.
(An ugly start here. I just felt it must be gotten out of the way. So, fresh pages away. After all, my love, we’ll let some into our homes. We’ll find time for a few of the strangers who in fact come from the rotten outside.)
A small room will forever be emptier. A bottle full of fizzy makes the day go down. The
uneventful life has no less meaning than the artist who becomes known in his own time.
Tell me why I never killed another man for having more than me. Tell me it wasn’t simply
that I knew there would be those with less than me waiting. Counter-revolution is
elevating everyone to some status of superiority—it is the instillation of a sense of others'
jealousy directed at the self. (When, let's face it, no one cares about your shit.)
For four square blocks
Dogs are known to dig up old bones. Also, if given the choice, they often opt to die
alone. We, however, human, die wide-eyed (of crimson, cry my son, and such). Cubs,
yes, even pups—we must lowly embrace that innocence is only deliberately abandoned,
never taken, never reft from our jaws, unless the utterance is our own. Guilt is so too
only admitted. We must own our tongues. Sometimes we must hold our tongues, or else
we’ll be exposed for having them. Out flowering is our fall, see, keeping quiet is our
lonely sanctuary. (Not that such security is good or healthy). Many people get nervous,
get agitated when they’re scared. I get quiet and altogether unfrightening. A thoughtless,
soothing voice, “I know. I know.” There is something new under the sun. Lo, eating,
they’ve perfected even their dipping, how they walk and gobble, they choke and swallow.
The boy’s first time goes unnoticed.
But there are last times for everything and rewards always just around the next invisible
bend. Least wise, there is nothing to comment once a perfect poem is read, for a perfect
poem is a circuit, which closes at the intersection of the reader’s mind and eye. That is to
say the head is a vital organ when reading a perfect poem—that is to say a perfect poem
is written headless.
