Hey now, don't despair, the carnival clown show isn't over
yet, you just gotta let it go sometimes, The Dude Abides somewhere
in us all, in me anyway and I'm no frigging alien. At least, not inside.
The Master Game might be living the early morning, said to
be (divine) by Emerson. Aside, sunshine mimes touch,
even if its contact between me and my dog, his name's Zorro, me
and god.
Me and you, owl-minded you, on the rocks over a California
coastline rugged on a perilous trail in the hot sun, or maybe me
and you in my queen-sized staring at the ceiling or the television watching
Spongebob Squarepants.
The Dude Abides, circumference-building like Magellen to the
Philippines,
circles sacred to those who believe in the sun, but this Vegas
sunshine dips me in lead paint and takes me out of this game.
I'll be glad when it's over. Not me and you, mind you, snowy
barn owl you, but this giant Dostoevsky novel starring
clowns,
sad, sad clowns. You, however, I want the moments we had to last
forever.
Hey, we had some good times! And in my opinion, more to come! If
we can jump over hurdles like racing dogs, the ones Bukowski
used to bet on (tho he bet on horses, didn't he?)
Even if we aren’t any of the above I can hope cus the only thing I
know
how to do is write poems and hide my face in naivety, of whom has
been
so good to me in the past.
No comments:
Post a Comment