I'll speak to your condition if you'll speak to mine,
it's no accident that the only thing I love is that.
Though it does seem odd that we have to find our way into it, every day.
May we stay stay stay in that house house house.
Listening like a mouse though it may be my wolf is howling,
or your pack of puppies are making a royal mess out of the toilet paper roll
that the cat put on the floor.
But these are all just things we already know,
so I wipe my face with my hand, down then up like a windshield wiper.
Looking for the new meaning that is hiding under the stale old meaning.
And envisioning us always having fun when we are out.
And we go all kinds of places, wherever we want actually.
Like a wide smile that holds all thoughts, all possibilities,
this world is not ended yet. No endism for us, that would be for the
exact opposite group than us, as well as me for half my life before now,
though much of it in denial, addiction running amuck like a horse and chariot
across the wide plains of central Asia, wherever the fuck those wide plains are
where the wheel was invented probably and then the chariot.
Chariots of fire, as the name of that movie, chariots of fire.
I know how to listen for the thundering hooves of the Huns, the Goths,
the Vandals, the Ostrogoths and Visigoths and God knows who.
I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know. But now I know a couple things
and couple things only: now and tomorrow with you.
Kernel of truth, maybe that could be a writing genre...
"As a child, 'perceptive internalizers' can't help but notice it
when their parents aren't truly connecting with them."
I had a melancholy phase at the old homestead when I was 11 to 14.
Staring out the window, the song Billy Boy playing:
"Billy boy, where are you going to, do you like the things that life is showing you?
