THIS HEDGEBOOK IS
KEEPING ME RUNNING
There is no guardian tape here : all my donors
are dead and there is nothing left. The windows
now are solid block. There is a tide in the affairs
of men that pushes people forward through time -
yet I hear, as well, that time and tide wait for no man.
I don't know what to do about that. I play some Mahler.
I play some Bach. I put some Sibelius down. I am a
rather simple fellow now, and these streets have run
aground and foul of their aces and eights. Right down
the line I am hearing noises. That shop selling leathers
and boots, the restaurant with its so-magnificent entrees,
the small Luna Cafe, with its pizza and oranges and wine.
All together, like a chorus, my dead-days are singing back;
yes, all the words and the chorus are known - the only thing
was can't get right is tempo, and tympani, and rhyme.