Grazing Tommorow's Past-ure

 

 Synthesis… the answer! Stupidly, like bumping into a wall in the dark, exactly as it should be. Yes, I’ve been so bad, in the past. Thought only at certain moments of myself, and apologies are due. Like Penelope and the sacro-cranial, which is what I need now, perhaps an advanced chiropractory, that Penelope does and not George. He does the part which hangs out in the world, has dualistic capabilities, right doesn’t know what the left hand is doing but one foot sure has to lead off. And what a leaping off. A bicycle for me. From Worcester MA to the gently rolling hills of Southeastern Ohio. Barns leaning faded red. Old Quakers from the last century with wide hats and bonnets and one on the floor chanting sing song into the future. No one’s hardly said God to me like that since. Squeeks perhaps, eeek a techno mouse. Hello, goodbye?

 Have our parents really reached further into the future than we’ll ever go and opened their arms there, making room amidst the ruins and brambles, seen us there in the past/future so we could make a home? Some of the parents and imperfectly seen, but enough. Whose parents then, I ask each and everyone, one by one tediously, without theory, with only a grazing of poetry. Grazing in the pasture.

 Singing now humming to myself, skull vibrating like an old shed no one’s used in like 60 yrs. Sturdy enough in timbers to hold some hay, but quite leaky. When I began the first summer song at New England Yearly Meeting, to which I had invited myself, a girl cried, and I wondered what have I done? The leader took me home and prescribed my protein needs, how many hard boiled eggs, and then turned towards me, trying futile-like to go to bed with me. I kept on hitchhiking instead of making home. I tickled two girls while passing through Rhode Island, they tickled Dan and I, I think he found his way eventually. Later at Ohio Yearly Meeting also uninvited the most beautiful took me to the apple orchard and later I wrote a song to the moon that was inside us both. Aaaaahhh these are non-adventures, merely extensions, fashion accesories, though sugar cakeish, surprisingly distant near crunchy. Words only at the right moment, are the goal, and your words also. Fundrazing, picking apples gloriously from the top of the tree with my friend Richard that fall, I said goodbye to him yesterday, the one I can’t see yet, hazed tho not angry.

 And thus do I hear the blade falling soon. No long hair for me ever. Time to scurry inside. From so far above, through pin point pricks of light, a somber gleewigwagwam manufactured in Earth’s fawn core, if surely arising resoundingly from both places at once, eeeeeeeee primarily either the first sound left standing or the inside sound of out and down, mothers dream of this word being enough to call their children home after all that simple claptrack and late night comedy on tv. Just one sweat ceremony and I said nothing at all while eating after wards.

 David Binney, touching every note and every phrase and every chord, easily letting go early without choosing the chosen or anyway.

 I’d like to find some people to stand behind and play the bass clarinet I hope I’ll have.