Monday, November 20, 2006

Fade-itemed, you shouldn’t have, you shouldn’t have signaled to me just now. Just help or understand me or at least fucking fake it. Get down on this rug with me. C’mon. Get down on on the clean clean floor. Happiness is maybe tomorrow’s thing-to-do. But for today, it’s all about you, you there with the pillows-piled and the stuffed bears, you feeling me? I mention train tracks, a couple coins, failed attempts at Paul Bunyan tales. But what’s left is just a barking inside. I was born in the South; I know dramatic theater; it’s part of my blood. All I can do is constrain it. Cue drum roll, a drama-filled hum of just-knowing.Cue young people who want their voice to be heard, for they do not understand me—even when I myself was young. Even cranes, even pistons, even apples, even in this city of clumped-up canals and a millionaire’s row—even the monuments have those thick inscrutable wires.