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the shaolin encampment song maybe, a little of this and you and reader, writer smart eyes will glide thorugh slip through between cracks rubber gloves for kitchen cleaning and those are being used right now for deviant sex all over the world and i'm only saying, only thinking maybe a little trapsing about in island mindsets further arms and eyes that bring us something special (photographs no one sends anywhere) and turns out the best of us are quiet, seething, faoming at the gums telling no one anything, bored with the quiet life but what's it worth what's it worth? so some somber one says we need half the way before we go, not knowing where we're headed, we get there too, and maybe that says something about the state of things... we need a new shaolin prince(cess) of the quiet loud and tendered out turned out laden with loadless life ways, a camp for shining out shouting out... certainly something means something certainly something says something (what happens in spinning yarn barns with old women and grandchildren: hanxd slaps and "you break it, you bought it's" and "no one wants a puke green crocheted hat" ) we turn it inside out. we turn it inside out. certainly sometimes there's a little wayward word i'm trying to get through, trying to get across, put words into sell-out bibles (we all do) and move thorugh past and in around and upside turns down we got clothes on lines and drawers half open, stacks of clothes (dirty as timelines, bloodlines) on bedroom floors and car floor boards, shampooed carpets sunny day lives and underwent a plastic surgery doled out on street corners to cover the dirt (we survive, we survive, and why the fuck not, right?) sow aht am i? what is this all supposed to mean to you? nothing is a great long answer and if your not getting it if the radio dial's a bit fuzzy, tuned out, turned on (like our friends to us) betrayal rings thin and shakes out like salted moonshine harmony (bigger than the earth) one more planet on it's way down on it's way down through torrid tunnels antarctic army lines drum lines beat that split us a little in the day time, break us half by half (friendless by night) and we are all lone armies when the sun goes down, we are all solo agendas, means-makers, justifiers of the cold word sent across the car park lot (somewhere whoever lives and to them, getting by is more than art) but i'm turning out to be a little more/less worthy of sunsets no more than worthy of crawling worms (i am the poet laureate of crawling creatures, wasted: but they are so far beyond me) and gets it big, turns out i have only borrowed prayers and there's safety in numbers they say, truth in beauty (all is one and all that trite fariy tale shit, we're just trying to survive without being held for too long beneath the water of confinement, losing our minds (i get it, i get it, by what's to be done? get right, we're undone, a hail mary to the carved out ones: hail mary, mother of the godless, we are trenched down by the ones we care most about, held down by our own condemnations, punishments, pursuits of trivial pleasures waking up is reward enough for most of us, and why shouldn't it be? hail mary, mother of loss, every last one is on that bandwagon and what have i really lost that everyone's else hasn't a few hundred times? mary, i like to believe my problems are unique and soon (maybe it'll get through) that nothing in me is bigger better smaller taller shorter grander or made more dull than by me thinking about it and who isn't who isn't that way, you know the best and all of them (or am i talking to yet another morning in the sunlight, dew on grass petals (they can be called), and dust is where we're all heading, dust is where we're all going, by why bother fretting on it, why bother getting used to anything one life is disapearing one day we're alive and a few clicks seconds hand goes by and each and last time we made it through this storm there was nothing left...
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