I'll spend absolutely no time thinking on glass eyes of near best fit in place of fooling with and skipping stones of plenty on damned shores. But willingly will I, with the greatest indifference or shining reluctance, depending on who I am on and during those aforementioned days, look below unto polluted waters, pulsing and bubbling fastly over stones into pits or tributaries and lakes further along, grasping loosely concrete or steel, recognizing whole-heartedly that what is before me is death so quick and aquatic, but cold anxieties that used to flood channels in my eyes are frozen beneath palaces built by queens and kings occupying steadfastly land with endless acreage. God, I am scared but curious: Do your random euphorias fall like feathers on spots like hanging boys and bloody bathrooms? God, I am falling in slow motion.
You will clench my heart between your fingers if you so wish, and this I surrender to with shaking hands and flooded eyes and cold palms. You will trample over bridges and let my loves and my lost fall into chasms that I cannot see anymore. I am present in the presence of blue and the bright whites. But red lines guide me into halls and wardrobes of German blondes and hairless rats. These cats will kill me if they have to key their way into my skin with gilded claws and silver needle teeth.
I fear the laughing man with photos of families and bamboo reeds and nice shoes has mastered the arts of mastering the artwork of those minds who need saving and can be saved, but cannot, in the end, save a rock at the bottom of the ocean. Well, damn, that artist has thrown his pencils and paints in the well and walked off into great fields of foolish blades of dead grass. Maybe horsemen will find the deserters and bring back shrouds and things and make their own sortof art from black coal and woman's red blood.
What will their canvas be but a wooden frame?
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