how can i write anything spectacular, these days?
of all the days: these are not: bon jovi's these days:
full album listened to...
am i going to become a plain jane medium
of events? hardly...
i can't write anything spec-ta-cular...
because... i find enigmas in the details:
the devils can heave their own load of events...
i can't write anything spectacular...
i'm not mad enough to drink 14 strong coffees
akin to Balzac to keep myself: tuned...
the base event: walking at night having your eyes
stolen by your shadow: ending up looking
for a mirror - or a puddle - neither readily
available: back into sketches of language...
because a narrator will hardly come -
or a full cast ensemble - choir-esque...
there's the happy to get along with:
old enough - ft. ricky skaggs & ashley monroe...
pirate of the: ca-rr- ca-rrí-b'ean...
and not: pirates of the: cari-b'evenin'suss...
carribean and not: carry-bean... mr. bean:
mr. magic beans to you...
back in england: as is always the governing
precursor -
mastic fantastic and mr. magic magnolias!
in the construction trade...
turns out rubber is also the prized asset
of constructing a tent -
and the not enough bundles of ****** are
hard to find...
but i can't write anything spectacular...
what's to be allowed: status: spectacular...
when a dancing shadow is everything
while i stand rooted into form like
a turnip and a stump of a former glory of oak...
the shadow that falls from the moon
and lands under a streetlamp...
and i say: forget the mirrors!
i'm looking at the prize: of when narcissus
finally made it to hades!
with additional details... something
of any worth of anything...
a drunkard lullaby who wakes up to a delirium
before finding the calm sea
and a boat... 'who dare bring women
and mirrors onto a ship?!'
voyage like none other...
and we would bring chickens for the eggs...
and violins to ease our ears from
shabby carpenters' work on the deck...
and... we most certainly brought
flutes with us... hell... the whole brass section
of an orchestra... to somehow pray...
and appease... the Anemoi...
if not eased by jazz we'd **** or at least
do the second best of a clarinet quartet concerto...
i did find that men read for a reason:
while women read to pass the time -
passing time -
with all the given space...
it's that one aspect of physical reality
that remains: play-dough riddling...
the Anemoi as the lesser -
otherwise the grand ghost of a breath that
pushes the Gaia into a pirouette in orbit...
some call it the wind -
i call it the ghost's breath - the arch ghost -
otherwise: well h'america is very, really:
the pristine heidegger base of a / the: "being" there...
sidenote... as h'america happens...
old europe is finding its locum among
the feral tribes that: once upon a time
used to nibble -
h'america just happens...
what the hell happened to the mandolin
via the banjo?
it's nonetheless such a distance...
the culture is exported but...
as the exported wheat...
it never becomes the returned dough
of a bread to be eaten -
the wheat to flour process probably
passed via Columbia or... some other cheap-***
metaphor...
these feet stood in russia...
these eyes saw russia...
i hardly think i will see or stand on the ground:
just across the pond...
"mighty me" for wanting to retain the remains
of whatever integrity is to be eaten:
as a leftover...
no qualms...
but i have been duly looking for...
substitute cultural references...
if i had to dig as far back as teutonic crusader
folk songs... that's quiet telling...
because this language is better written -
should it ever be said...
i'm... not exactly looking for a stage -
and clown-make-up.