12 September 2005

A Convalescent Duck and Its Darkhorse Jumper

youre right as rain about the benefits
but you might be wrong about the costs
and it feeds my heart that you came looking for me
but im thinkin i need to stay lost

I like that about some records, that whipper-wobble in their spin, that tin string sound i cant stand to sit with. The conjecture a sound makes is something intrinsic in its hate for the meddling air, the swooshing way it claps at the tempo or timbre rising continually from edge to edge. I would put it in a pine box as a child, a resin-slide and toggle-side case of music that would always delight the upswung cheeks of children on their way home. A thousand generations, a hundred years of solitude passing may only be a second to that brumbling bramble bush that always burned in the corner of the inspired man's mind, might only have been a quick inflection point on a carriage lamp's parabolic light. Nothing much going on these days while the callous builds over the flame, its burning heat as all of us, we as one, arch our backs and hail the sun, nothing much to the fading light and cooling lips. There was that look under the umbrella, from one to the next to the last furthest from the curb, a sort of hello that said something more like "is it safe to be so secret of this life". And sure we nod, we grin a quiet tangent thought that says we may have been, may have been partial to an idea, may have been partial to their cordiality, may have been carrying sign that said yours, but that's not what you'll get. It flows back off us the last oozing cloud of humanity, all the fun momentarily forgotten for the bits of fear of wet and wind and flock life we grew from. A Sunday show on single layer cement slab, the thespians ill trained and ill practiced, but these are the ones I love. A face crossed by fist, an arm hooked by hand, and all the players moving toward the reaper at stage left glare wholly up while they promenade and dance. You find angels in the ground shadows to the feet of man all stepping clockwise in sandy shoals like legs of good wine running in the lights of the river home.
And the madness leases time from all our candle-lit games, streaming down in lacrimal parcels lost, irreplaceable to the strange hollow that frail pear-shaped hole in the universe that blows out with a whisper from our doppel-ganger selves.

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