it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up
fatigue shifting like dunes within their eyesa frightful nausea gumming up the worksthat once was thought aggression in disguise.Do you remember? then how lightly deadseemed the moon when over factoriesit languid slid like a barrage of leadabove the heart, the fierce inventoriesof desire. Now women wander our dreamscarrying money and to our sleep’s shameour hands…
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouthit’s no use worrying about Timebut we did have a few tricks up our sleevesand turned some sharp cornersthe whole pasture looked like our mealwe didn’t need speedometerswe could manage cocktails out of ice and waterI wouldn’t want to be fasteror greener than now if…
while in our willful waywe, in secret, playaffectionate games and bruiseour knees like China’s shoes.The birds push apples throughgrass the moon turns blue,these apples roll beneathour buttocks like a heathfull of Chinese thrushesflushed from China’s bushes.As we love at nightbirds sing out of sight,Chinese rhythms beatthrough us in our heat,the apples and the birdsmove us…
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.My quietness has a number of naked selves,so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselvesfrom creatures who too readily recognize my weaponsand have murder in their heart!though in winterthey are warm as roses, in the deserttaste of chilled anisette.At times, withdrawn,I rise into the cool…
so much, it’s likevomiting. And I amnourished by theshabbiness of myknowing so muchabout others and whatthey do, and acceptingso much that I hateas if I didn’t knowwhat it is, to me.And what it is tothem I know, and hate.
of life even your own mysteriousnessyou think it is nice that a boxof matches is purple and brown and is calledLa Petite and comes from Swedenfor they are words that you know and thatis all you know words not their feelingsor what they mean and you write becauseyou know them not because you understand thembecause…
