The ancient tacoma grainery,
Stands in a corner of its own now.
Tne dark tunnell still has leggs when
she lets go.
The dock street rail yard fills up the city like a
loaf of hotnsteamy bread.
Farther down our ambitious tycoon
Stacks up condos, wheat pancakes,
Is his breakfast of choice.
They demolished the old elks club.
Which sprung across the street
like a walmart super store.
Blue and yellow is workers vest
perks and all.  Their members still
grase for golfballs off the ten million dollar tees.
There isnt much enjoyment, they'd rather drink.
Last month my two foot clarks walked through the sliding dorrs hospitality.
Wanting to see the high mountain of sucess,
I looked for organic oats.  
My minds to random.
I inch up to the screen and see the faces of migrant workers,
Hang like meat.
After six months in america half the under employed,
Are giving up.
Deported with their children.
My hope still goes out to the college students.
And their first morgage of inflamatory dough.
They all buy up every job still hoping for change.
No marrijuana in public,
Get away while the officers turn their backs,
With their guns to pepper a face.
In the taxing store.
Im afraid we smoked heavilly.
Love to the workers,
Love to their vests.
Everythings devoliping to quick.
My new bike slices by cars of ritz crackers.
Everthings been built to last.
There nothing left to buil on,
Only a few vacent lots that wait for tresspassers.
One man dives through a trash can and isnt scared.
He picks out a hamburger bun and eats his lunch.

but always with the pieces.
Piles of information
from conversations dating back
to the spring of '91.

Pieces;
like they're a thought that stands alone.
Pieces;
it suggests that everything will be pieced back
together.
Pieces;
this is how I remember it now.

My records are
Highlights and underlines
and low lights.  
Sometimes no lights.  
Everything in shorthand, the shortest hand
shorter than a flea circus stands above the ground.

I have kept a professional record of every conversation
and I have been the opposite of professional.
An Anti-professional.
The original Anti-thought.
Anti-Anti-Anxiety.Anti-Matter Inflamatory.
The Anti-Gravity Example.
Unable to keep the track from bending.

                  And always derailed by these unneeded poetics,
                 dressing up the few and far
                  spaces as ghosts between worlds,
                 or something mundane as impossibly important.
               I'm losing track of time, shoving metaphors in envelopes
                I'm some ******* who thinks art is everywhere

next is immeasurable.
That's reasonable, right?
That mental assent i take it

you gave
leave? Took my cookie, didn't you?

Taste it, see
its good, from my very lips -- fructuption

a break-out, protruding an
inflamatory we, pressing me to join

the long dance rekka whatever irish thingy

A faery circle in the woods, aw, that ain't nuthin',

we got geometric meme replicators running

in amber waves of grain,
beyonder from your meme brain

psi-ing in the wind, rememe-ing

"there must be some kinda way outa here"
said the joker to the the-if.
echo from october, 1969, the moratorium