As we drift through
The years
Of our maybe...
Wake up next to her
Suddenly with a title:
"the older man."
It's like the first time
I ever saw
A priest smoke,
No guilt.
Those who make art and those who sell it.
Those who want nothing to do with it,
But talk about babies
And taxes
On real estate
Investments.
Not very smart,
How many
Business opportunities
Have I passed up
Because I'd rather
Try and
Speak with the voice of the dead,
Or
Of the intimacy of animals
When they wash each other?
I might be quite boring,
But at least I know
That children
Almost always
Make love
With their
Make-pretend
Friends...
It's not the eyes,
Or the lips,
Or the hands:
You can tell people,
Their years and moments,
By their shoulders.
You can read shoulders
Faster than any other part
Of the body.
There once
Was a boy
Who mated
With a butterfly,
I swear it.
It happened in the woods behind his house.
Again and again,
No one ever knew
The beautiful depravity
That he lived.
Returning home
He was asked where he was.
"Smoking like a priest,"
he would tell them.
"Where do you get your ideas?"
"Have you noticed, the crows are taking over,"
he replied?
Protect her from the depths
So she doesn't have to fall alone;
That's how it starts.
A shark cage being dropped...
Orange bars,
No hands gripping:
Fearing teeth hands.
And wanting
To go all the way,
Follow down
To the
Place of no light,
Trails
Of blood
Behind
From all the slit
Meat in the world.
And finding out you can't,
You don't have the stomach
For it,
And never did.
That picture by George Grosz
I found In the book of drawings,
It was like opening
A page on my dream...
Only George,
In the picture,
Is painting
The hole,
Not
Filming it
Like dreaming me...
I guess
There were
No video cameras
Yet
In Germany
In 1934.
Let me tell you something:
The surface was artifice, but the artifice was necessary to cover the truth.
Almost everyone I know, almost everything I see,
myself,
All built on bones and blood and amibition
And pretense,
But who can tell the difference anymore?
And yet,
Every day
She used to pack my lunch for me.
I was 27.
My whole 27th year.
365 days of
Chicken and soup and peanut butter and jelly and cake and cheese and yogurt and fruit and...
No
one
ever
did
that
for
me.
Note: I convince them that mine is the gaze of no other...
And I have no idea how.
That's what I give:
Almost enough.
Don't worry,
Gravity gets everybody,
And it's almost enough.
Los Angeles - 4/18/07
