I like this keyboard

Here is the ocean, the fingers and the gears of my machine, the years bend and mountains sway, it is the day of the penguin and the metope, the ecstatic rushing antelope anemone. We are diction dogs, searching the logs, clogging mines and pantomiming, erasing past mistakes and creating modern fallacies, avoiding small mistakes as we dive into the comfort of a thick black hole.

Down the hall a low rumble, as inspirationally random as bananas in a submarine, or a sandwich made of chocolate in a soup tureen. This is the closet syllabic synthesis, the prissy poetry bitch, the Moses parting hairs with chariots of the Pharoah, he knows which way his people go, arguments make me go loco... And I like fruit in all its forms but costly moments heap on scorn, the drugs divide us till we’re worn. Have you seen the magic man in the lobby, exhorting pigeons from his sleeve, making bird-surprise like bombshells and asking for vacation leave? On Friday I can daydream, on Friday I type, the keyboard has missed me and I miss that clack, so I strike the keys and the sound bounces back.

You and I are old as stones, Precambrian bits within our smiles, helium hydrogen variegated in a million ways, those lanes and alleyways lead to Rome, so I went there, back to Italy, where another funeral was to greet me, rites of passage and respects to pay, as one day will be paid my way. Yes, I will die and you will cry, like people cry cuz they’re alive. This witness is reciprocal, we gather what we give away, I gave it all away anyway. Every day I act that way. But you wonder why some blessed are and some cursed, everyone obsessed with an empty purse? Lurching hungry amid perceived inequalities, though all is good if you wipe away the superficiality, and she didn't mind suffering when it led to bliss, I said 'if you sit forever thirsty - I can promise you a kiss.' She didn't mind being a sucker for romance, I said 'if you sit here in the corner I will finally let you dance.'

(I didn't ask her to be a martyr; I asked for five seconds while I settled her accounts - but my minutes are not hers and she's mad enough to pounce.)

1 comment:

Herself said...

i always daydream of fantastic crying and moaning at my funeral and the thousands that will flock to mourn the loss of me. the waves of black clothing. the tears of river. and always the moaning. maybe its mine?