You've done something to your face. An eye's a little smaller, something's happened to your mouth. My body's improving, but it will never change. Every little bloom, fluorescence, suggests decay in foretelling. If it's not broke, you can't fix it. If it's impatient, it will mistake. The fields, the jungle, are over-subscribed. The market's high, but it will fade. My mother, the liar, has discovered honesty in literature (!) at an advanced age. That means, I hope, permission to be ugly, mean, unkind. Though permission is not and never was and will never be required to be an asshole. It comes naturally. Fighter planes roar across the evening sky, practicing for the show, which is itself a dry run for the real thing. Then, again, everyone will suffer and die and wonder at the wasted, golden years gone by. What happened? Was I dreaming? Why didn't I prepare? The end is always the same, anyway. It's what you leave behind -- but that's out of your hands, and has been since it came out. There's been a murder next door. Don't yet know who killed and who died. It came to light by the smell. Around the same time, the garden was being plundered by thieves who shit to mark their attendance at your place. All this while we're sleeping and the guard's afraid to leave the guardhouse. When that happens, the police have to hurt somebody. No wonder the poor girl hung herself in her cell. Let's make a pact. OK, let's lie, but pretend we believe it and maybe some of it will come to pass -- like the existence of Switzerland from the Treaty of Vienna. It was a small clause, but helped a lot of people who have lived and died since 1815. Bless them.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Monday, July 13, 2015
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