HAMMING THE REAGAN EXIT
I get so tired of people writing
about precious things : I guess it
has to do with Carlos Williams and
all that plums and wheelbarrow
stuff. When you think about it,
mostly a cage is air; rainy days
in Georgetown; when the tennis
ball went back and forth in time;
my mother has taken me to
Paddington Station and we are
inside a whale; I want my mice
to be just like me - right now
they're all like mice; I didn't
want to eat the vine-ripened
tomato I saw on your table, but
it looked so good. I cut it in fours
and left half for you; black lives
matter, yes, but back-lives matter
more - we all have our stories;
what really matters now is begonia,
and so we slit the throat of the
florist; my first drink was in my
mother, and my father died with a
bottle in his hand, and I've been
drinking ever since both; but I have
not been, for a very long time, with
my feet on the earth; baptism is what
the living do; the rest are idols of
fish and worm; please bend that
reflection for me, OK?
No comments:
Post a Comment