Little kids own big- league dreams—like starting for the majors. But— the majority of big-leaguers once they're up there—start to pitch less self-centered things like— holding a majority share in the team.
Even on a pretty silent endless- ly repeating white sand beach, such—nontrivial strands of pure numbers keep on tending to exist wherever he looks; each unemotionally extending outward—mapping whole oceans from its own incalculable and passionless origin; each defining—without any specific directive to be proven—the slightest precision vector position; and each repeating—endlessly as it forges flawless- and precisely the jagged gem-like intricacies of such apparent- ly soft- focus scenery—one hard idea in particular, over and over and over and over—location location location.
In my drafty dreams—the silent pale and soft- cornered nude—descending just as I—five a.m. half- sleeping—trudge roughly upward toward—the goal of a certain off-white porcelain bowl at the top—suddenly stops—all of her stylized declining motion a moment in order to raise up—a trifle more realistically her fair and her alabaster hand in the dark to high-five me—there on my cold laminate stairs.
Try, if you could to imagine—the chaos certain to befall any big- shouldered city—if ever such hordes of frail would- be poets—as never before appeared in their numbers—
each distractedly nosing-about, unique and completely independently—through the swamped and complex hoary networks—through jammed- up and damp flumes of old streets on a bleary and crumbling bleak, rainy Thursday, say; and each looking only for a certain rare strain or two, maybe—of exclusive- ly personal artistic freedom— all at once actually saw what they needed to out there in the unspeakably workaday fog—
Kate—I want to make plain my intention to you—that I'm primarily presently thinking of crafting the most—irrevocably vivid indispensablegesture! And I'm not at all sure yet what-all else it contains—but I'm confident it'll culminate in the pure and the ultimate image—of some truly spectacular iridescent green feathers.
Remember, at least—once maybe even—two times a day for as long as he owns it—even the most bad-ass of huge hulking dudes—seemingly devil-may-care, rude with the baggiest swag and the saggiest jewelry—will take his most- precious and little and lily white— pug dog for a pisswalk.
Isn't it funny? Whenever— the sun begins—in your mind to shimmy and shed its daffy salutation down solely—over the highway on which your now- glinting gold car continues to glide—how the music you're hearing sounds like it's all—effortlessly right on your side—and how, somehow that fine sporty mind of yours just doesn't think to abide—any frustration! whatso- ever—in seeing such incredible piles of self- similar cars—so long, that is as they're not all lined- up on the same shiny—side of the median!
Pedal to the metal—through another giant rainbow motor oil- streaked sludge puddle on the thawing pavement soaking the black and ambulating furtive outline of a figure who's—actually not at all phased—at the time but subsequently feels rather nonplussed—as such; but mainly because he can't remember just the perfect meticulous order—the way in which he sorely wanted to explain
The busting constituents—can't blame the vehement and sort- of disheveled bleary shining forth of a—pelted slit of sun propped- up clumsy above the muddy morning— so weary! now after—having conspicuously fought and—narrowly won another hot- ly contested—relentless next day's re- election.
Ghastly streaks of muddy salt on a beat-up truck—in front of me in thick plumes of traffic nearly seemed to spell it out—look! at what this life is—every ugly single day you pay a little bit of rent—and by and by feel justified—which is just a word you use for tired—in feeling like you own the space in which you walk around and put upon your grizzled face a cold and skinny reticence to ever even think to try to remember who to ask—when the time comes for the deposit on your slavery back.
Sheer- ly for the sake of height—I built myself then climbed a shelf of pale and selfish white ivory one night—and just stayed perfectly steady still mumbling toward morning over and over again—something unique like how—all of the best saints of old hard days—were all so ardent- ly— racked with guilt.
After a tired while driving—I find a kind of pink and pleasant ring of light frosting—just the edges of the doughy sky has been tacitly making the slight- est of blushing impositions on my pale narrow mind— tinging another mute slow and dull-with- cold morning commute with—albeit disassociated and abstract thoughts of celestial roseycheeked cherub kids smiling—their wondrous eyefulls grown wide with that particular color of clinging hot sugar—that blazes forth from every even half- way decent warm bakery on earth.
In order to better gain control
of spooky situations— we
assure ourselves in consolation often things like this—that ravens
like the two iridescent small characters
currently perched and laughing away on your grand old limestone marker— certainly aren't allowed in heaven.
I don't just want to start—sipping comfortably a new white cup of steam- hot and bold- blooming black tea—I also (simultaneously) long to feel at the bottom of it all—that same ardor that first fills up such a vessel initially. But how strange— and how tough! and unusual—don't you agree?—to drain down the last bitter—and lukewarm drop of the drink just as eager- (not to mention grate-) fully!
and ducking just don't
sound like— the same thing
as throwing—the next guy
in line behind me to buy
the same thing
I've been dying
for a lifetime to purchase—in front
of such commonsense
of rhetoric- al bullets.