i haven’t been up until seven am too many times since the days when lsd was dense like sweet corn during manchester summers not too long after kurt cobain killed michael jackson and music changed forever. but it has happened twice this week (and i really can’t remember the last night i went to bed before four). without rain nor shade nor mornings nor money, we are running with 1989 and the shadows of the night.
bob pollard sings pictures of me big time while we ponder the big picture. i dust off old songs with new arrangements and feel in/out other arrangements, too, while poems get dealt and broken in for the sea. to the sea. by the warm sea i should have taken you in, but thought it wiser to stay dry. stay safe. stay sensible. i’ll be over here if you need me.
but once the new contracts are drawn up and the wills leave nothing to the biological mothers, we’ll be free as a second choice (but the better one considering the facts before us and all we’ve learned from history) to take a midnight train to georgia or tacoma or san bernardino or colorado or, hey, i hear high speed rail is coming to decatur. have you ever been? me neither, but they say it’s lovely. shabby chic. no pretense. great beaches. or was it great burgers?
no matter, cause you can keep time and i will make the effort and we’ll elbow up and fight thirst in the timeless roadside love elvin bishop fooled around and fell in. and the stars will fall at their current rate and we’ll hit all the retards and won’t rush it and we’ll ride out the codas into ends that celebrate like tenth inning walk offs at home, beautiful even when you’re visiting, cause the arc is still lovely and they land so damn soft like rainbows on gold, killing games whose lovers keep coming back and coming back, they come and come and come back again and again despite the rules. we could lose.
just because. those are the rules. someone’s got to lose.
but we won’t.
we won’t.
really.
i got a tip.
from a reliable source. the fix is in.
keep it quiet, but, sure go ahead.
bet the farm.
it’s a lock.
Tags: summer2 Comments
2 responses so far ↓
Consider this anecdote: Hugo, toward the end of his life, took the same ride with Juliette Drouet every day, always interrupting his wordless meditation when their carriage passed an estate with two gates, one large, one small; pointing to the large gate, Hugo, for perhaps the thousandth time, would say: “Bridle gate, Madame,” to which Juliette, pointing to the small gate, would reply: “Pedestrian gate, Monsieur.”
Breton
Nadja
Found around seven.
get some sleep, chicago.