$1.37; the cheapest cup of solitude yet tucked in the armpit of an acoustic breeze,
& folks with twice my eyes on a semi-back street unearthed by brick red wings.
making digging motions in the armpithairs of loneliness,
an open invitation to sing loud if it at least rustles the hairs.
and if i'm lonely what the fuck are the young people supposed to do without me?
fuck em. They can keep their society, belligerence,
I need a smoke and a gray prairie.
there is a fountain here somewhere for proper miscreants.
if you want a poet, i'm yr poet, but otherwise i'm a papercup half-full of desolation out the window. you can have yr air-conditioner culture,
the wind is hot but it's nice, it tickles my arm hairs, these tiny tallgrass blades, each one a different story, each story a scorched desire to be different.
transformation is each throttling cartwheel of the wind.
I couldn't write fast enough to catch it, but it's still in my mouth, fragmented, snagged in spit,
each dry accent a staccato breathe.
it is knowing what you want in a world wasted off its ass in post-post-modern superironic indecisiveness,
too cool for nothing is nothing to cool for.
sweating the devil out in its own wind, supergodless supergod,
a steady forfeit of time to bones,
protestant anti-wind-ethic, bone grind annihilation, too slippery for it, bursting clouds in the argument for a transient sort of god,
the highrope of synaptic burn of not knowing what the hell yr saying.
having time like i have nothing,
fighting off redundancies with some sort of heavy sword,
hammering out the nothingess,
into a flat sheet of wind.