Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Soliloquy From///An Open Fall Window.

Gun-metal gray;
scratching toenails on a chalk plateau of glazed slick roadway, the casper-mantra of light pollution drizzling,
somebody told me over the radio poetry wasn't as revolutionary as all that,
didn't light a fire under yr ass,
yea the way ya'lls faces hang down nowadays you'd almost think the radioman was right, here,
amidst jesus's giant awning of the gray gray sky o'erhangs this whole damn place
with mosquito pellets of rain while my boy is shackled, really he's in jail, i talk this over with my friend, him stoned, across the table, i writing this.
it seems to go;
Gun-metal gray
scratching nails on chalk plateau streets.
forecast: arms of rain
a tongue of gray
a mush brain of sleet drifting like an enigma o'er the black sepulchre of cars and what they skidded on.
tomorrow: the same. a tumor of a city in a tomb of the city.
tomorrow-morrow: same. wet dreams. whipping whisps of slickering black-ice
retarding a world with anything but patience,
metal beasts learn the poetry of the glide,
unlearn control.
Gun-metal gray is the sky's o'erhang,
whose gun?
and whose sky?
is really the question right now, a firearm in the arm of god which is in a sling,
the cowboys are all dead and the flies are pretty thrilled
weird the way myths have always reinforced and combated the hyper-real.
Semi-sleet pellets shot straight out the gun of jesus mouth.
whose jesus?
and whose mouth?
these fragments do they put to rest the myth that things are only fragments put into place and after/if they stay put in place, in motion?
my young friend thru stoned brain tells me i'm getting the swine flu
like a bad vaccine, it's coming (it ain't that bad he says) it's apocalypse hysteria (i tell him)
bunk prophesies prophesied through pierced eyes
radar gun jeremiads,
tea-tripped half-truisms.
is beautiful and chewing us up alive through the window with scorching pigments.
the pieces are getting used up but yeah we'll shatter them sho' 'nuff, freedom and all that good stuff, like fr real this time.
sweating cold bullets through gun metal of sky-shield.
where 'round here is the bright bulbs of the human constellation?
my stoned friend takes a nap on the coffee table as I whisper these sweet nothings into his sleeping ears.
money=debt=slavery, don't spend no cash kid, if'n ya can help it, honestly.

gun metal gray, the industrial panels of the damn sky open
whereforto constellations?
i want to touch it but am terrified
i love it.

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