because there are no late night diners this is where we begin.
without coffee. without radiant heat. the moon stuck to a cold black sky.
the window has been open all night. the window is wide open.
the hero is fully dressed down to stocking feet. the hero’s breast aches.
the hero thinks of the word longing and realizes it has little meaning.
(this part will later be cut, but is necessesary now, as are the midnight cigarettes).
*
How has the least of your desires defoliated so soon?
The shutterspeed’s been set to hallaluia ever since your wish.
After all the looking closley at rare footage of nature, that short film engaged
repelantly in the feild of time in tense, with light so neatly set in opposition
with the wick of water, we’ve already come a hair’s breath too far
from a shadow’s liberation.
And yet, what have we convinced the audience?
Suicide makes the daft ideal.
Curators of grass and sex appeal, tormentors of a sibling’s goodness, flack-
fraught and infamous for engendering familiar objects:
archetypes of killzone, chandeliers of sickness, even
random correlatives (as innocent as mittens);
fit with blame.
We’re equally inexcusable below this ubiquitous moon.
remote. remote. remote. remote.
So you have brought me here to present your mountain.
Is this your mountain? Show me your ruin on it.
*
Virtue, are you listening?
The fancy rationalists are preparing to deliver you your gilded gram of terra
in a vehicle of bright idea. At very little expense to the wholecloth.
At least that’s the sale’s pitch or tale we recently pinned to the donkey.
Welcome to anima city! Says Mr. Monkey (who doesn’t exist -
so therefore is not heard). May your magnification sustain you!
You mustn’t laugh, it’s passe. It’s anti-establishment, it’s marxist.
Even if the night is so masculine it smells like a closetfull of ties.
Even if the intervention comes from something calling itself government.
(I know. Easier sad than done).
Even if you beleive in Mr. Monkey.
*
Ah, but there’s probably a problem, is often heard
in the halls of he who waits for rapture, and is adept with the list by now:
Too familiar with the cityscape we misunderstood like wildfire.
Spread knowlege across the culturefield of our seasonal interpretation, making harvest
our exile, and renounce. Scribbled a religion of looky looky
and scrawled peek-a-boo doctrines until we created a stalwart prototype
which, in the end represented, in a small way
a monolithic elixer of a program.
It was originally thought that nourishment must be shadowshed to get there.
By originally, we meant capital is mystical.
(or was it SHE who waits?)
O give us a shovel for we suspect a motif.
*
