Monday, June 9, 2014

5459. THE NAME OF THE LAND IS COTTON CANDY

THE NAME OF THE 
LAND IS COTTON CANDY
All these mixed-up cards are confusing now : the 
landscape seems made of silent maps. Everywhere 
there are lines and caves and hollows and hills. 
What dump-sweep master dreamed this up? 
West Virginia has its cyclotron drama. 
Delaware has its dream..
-
I don't care for anything anymore. Charley West, 
it's all over. I took down the lamp from the barnyard 
shelves, the place where, as it were, I 'found' you and 
Lula embracing. The river was running right by your necks. 
Conestoga, Monongahela, Sweetbriar and Shenandoah. 
Water running, south, north, east and west 
(your hand was on her chest).
For myself, I loved America when it was a problem, 
not a solution. A wild, obstreperous child, not a 
correctly-enamored gentility licking its own chops.
Now - fuck - I just hate everything I see : the carnivals
with no daring rides, the circus clowns with business
cards, the race-car drivers with their air-bag asses.
No one takes chances anymore on the Midway rides.

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