Saturday, April 30, 2011

A Rote

Great is the pull that controls me.
Humble is the pilot who flies me.
Fate is the wrench that turns me.
Destiny is the drum that keeps me time.
Deduce my story, differentiate me.
Finished is the grain inside me.
The end is near. Real is my hope to vanish like thief.
The start is miles away. Hurl my light restore me.
Do you find that your mind is in a kitten?
I wasn't banging up on you.
I was in the middle of a rote. 

Luff, that was tuff. The playoffs were a curse.
You knew that. I didn't. No money could bring us together.
I got good, and you got better. At noon it was complete.
Some year the best will do nicely.  Better than most,
that's what we said. Ride the trains or don't,
what does it matter to me.

I'm in the hornet stinging us bad.
We're in the moon watching you good.
Apples and oranges, the pumpkin is me base.
We are all I ponder. Flirt my night become me.
Grand the illusion desire me.   

Four of the days of the week are commas. Three are apples.
How fluid everything is. Enough of the fox that stops me.
Coasting is the mop I clean with. I do it for the reds and the blues,
sometimes the yellows, but let us not speak of things
that are beyond us.

I was the one destroying the good times. Yesterday I was depressive.
Today I am statistical. Multitasking in a hooverville yesterday,
I shut up ten cowboys. I'll cut you in half with this spoon,
this mattress, this nothingness.
Let us abstain from intellectual activity and play tennis.

A mile ain't so high. I been there. Maybe I still am.
We're still on the ground, babe. We're Jo in the dance
that leans on the universe. I follow Grail when the lads
strike up the band.        

I fade in and out like Manhattan on a button hook.
State nothing, yet say everything.
The allusion is a mild pleasure I possibly felt. Where is my voice?
Where is my heart? Lost in their luff.

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