(-when will the sky stop taking photographs of me?)
I know, I know- there's no one else,
no one as ingenious as me:
the palm tree is plain, boring, complacent
with everything, as it is- with its long neck, it's
as tall as a three storey building- it lives efficiently,
three-hundred feet seperated-
when we're in trouble- it looks like a horn tower
about to give orations-
about to give directions-
like some stupid monk,
it's always climbing, purging weights
away. -No, he doesn't want
you. No he doesn't want you.
Then there's these mammals:
torso of coal, stealthy as knife,
braver at night-
they see you,- to them
yu're a cruel thing that makes living difficult.
No, they don't want
you. No, they don't want you.
You're on your stomach, floating like a duck, witless as July,
and from the trailer of your sheep-carrying clouds,
you're watching,- you're watching
as your faulty guitar plays
for vegetables.
And if I could swirl like wind,
or burst out in constipation, taking horrible amounts of air,
I would spill- into the liquor-blue, to you, and you
that go unseen by planes and skydiving astronauts-
would be found
by me, would be found by me, so easily.
But then that would've sunk
the ghostship in the Pacific-
the anonymity that held the stars for so long
for adults and children
to glue good personalities&trinkets on them- that open bank
that so willingly takes
the achromatic waves and the harmless insults.
some things in life are best remain hidden-
like earthworms under boulderstones,
snow leopard's paw in a blizzard,
(-I see you
cheering in lightning, your gait of a slut,-
walking toward me.
i play along.)
