DARK MATTER
This life is made of nothing, and
I wallow in the coarseness of that.
Sitting around for ages just watching
things decay, viewing the destruction as
of a Winter's blizzard on a New Year's
Day. I've nothing to say, and these
Rose Bowl antics don't settle me down.
A new law says I'm an outlaw. It suits
me fine; let me sign at the dotted line.
-
I've never much liked any of this anyway
and now the record-keeping's gone astray.
-
You came here with a Summer jacket -
bad move, it was, for you; even in
May around here it can be 40 degrees.
You'll freeze, Lady Diver, and I won't
take you in, I'm done. You never give
me any anyway.
-
I saw an old commercial on some
rickety old screen. Some old toothpaste
ad for kids. Made no sense, and now
anyway all those teeth are gone, and
probably most of those kids now are
dead or dying. Their run is over; might
have been accountants or plumbers, bus
drivers or nurses or thieves. Career paths
like that have really odd arcs. Canine
incisors? Puppy dog barks?
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