HELP ME FEED
THE JOYCE BROTHERS
It's way too late for anything good, though I'm sitting
up watching anyway : time is a fugitive here, running
between the midnight stars - a flash of a planet, and a
half-moon sinking. What else is there to choose from?
This morning I was in a different world : workmen coaxing
in doorways, their crazy Carhartts and their buttered rolls and
coffee. They sing loud and talk loud too. Looking out to
whistle at things; yet in the end it's all the same - they too
end up staring at phone-message screens.
A hydraulic lift somewhere carries twelve pieces of wallboard
up the side of going-up building. I watch, as bored as a snake in
a patch of willow. Even if it fell and crushed ten people, I don't
think I'd care. No matter to me, these creeps who fail at trying
and try at failing too. Let the moment pass and move along.
That was then and this is now - like they say. Who then am
I to mooch another moment off a man who has none left? These
guys get paid to stand around, between momentary jobs on a
momentary job. I get paid nothing but to be - look up at the
moon right now, steady and as permanent as all can be. There's
no discussing that. It leaves, and then it's back. Starlight is
the ghost of the cosmos, that distant dust of which we're
made : Momentary jobs on a momentary job.