And so one morning you’re visited by Elizabethan devils, each wearing the costume of his humor—bloody sage, Saturn rising…
“How did you get in?” you ask knowing the question is hopeless.
“We’re your birthright,” says the short one with the little box.
Dear reader: do you or don’t you ask what’s in the box?
The real dead…you know, the vast chorus of souls freed from superstitions…well, they don’t play no fucking Ouija…
Rain journeys road calls bird walks small child turns knob on radio…
So much fire out in space
Gives me hope
Thinking of Auden
They used to argue about the origins of socialism in the old worker’s bar I loved when I was in my early twenties–nights, an accordionist, mist from the canal, and beer soaked legerdemain viz Babeuf and the Society of Equals. Now I live on books, alone in a covert. Soon I’ll drink the potion of the old. Its terrible to have no one to talk to. As for the accordion, its a real Marxist music box though they won’t tell you on National Public Radio.
C’mon dogfish let’s find the catfish and get the hell out of here…
On a Train
Night crosses the desert of my understanding. I wonder if I can stick to one thought, like a small hunting dog?