stammering keeps it course


it was sunday, a month of sundays, a day next to tomorrows tomorrow - a word submitted to a collage - with courage the great and powerful - death in my heart country western revival keeps playing . . . no no . . . keys to my door . . . I was grinding my teeth again, grinding them to lucky numbers for the state run lottery; tomorrow is a horde of tomorrows and I need to take my imitation-leather feeling across the street - each step - a butcher block mushroom cloud, a hammer-head shark, a fish dealer at the end of the day, vinegar instead of an emotional riff . . . no no . . . it is an emotion riff of rearranged things folded into an immense tableau. I wonder where the present went when I crush myself with my own insurgence; dont go, did you say louder still, theyre all like that - answer quickly your life depends on it. the bells begin a reminiscing - there are always bells or bullets when reminiscing. great moods and shiny rain coats - I polish disdain with a beggars smile - burning hot or freezing - always freezing. and nothing except the conquest for half a shelf-life - they all talk, absorbed in bare window barbecues - I prop myself up against an empty space, recede into mist. how calm - how the nets are spread - one day or the next or six months from now sitting in an armchair something will happen - somethings in the air - something to adjust the volume to . . .