THIS HAMMOCK SHALL
BE AS MY GRIDLOCK
Here in the city they say nothing is forever;
my Blinky Palermo motives wander as far -
as far as time allows; there is no ending
to anything at all. Mondrian is my catch-basin
man. The boat-guy down on the harbor pier,
he's standing on two good legs waving
something in. I'm not intent to move.
-
Not a muscle, not a twitch. I shall stay right
here forever, or until I die, or - if those aren't
the same things - until something massive moves
me. Propels me upward. Raptures me back to
Reality, whatever that slimy franchise is.
I'll have fries with that; make me
one with everything, as that zen
guy said, just now, to the
hot-dog vendor.
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