I did the cowardly thing to do, and I feel more relieved than ever.
(I want to kiss your unrefined cheeks. It’s difficult to think
Anything but pleasant thoughts. You relieve me, arm-rest,)
Adios. Dios, Adios. It is the perfect harvest.
All the stars dimmed. There is only defeat, but defeat is for later, Lover.
Later, later– we find; among the new, bright cheeks of the resurfacing;
ATHENA PARTHENOS! Every thing is small. Every thing, drenched
In composure. Regret is dead, but love is more. I do so dream about it more.
But no more uncertainties; just resolutions to every ring lost. My heart, my heart
Will no longer be divided; will no more be distracted by the perfection of your
Youth– YOU! at your finest… I finally rang the doorbell. This is the perfect harvest!
This is our perfect! Hardest! (In your land of no growth, can we still dream progress?)
I be durn if he didn’t act like he was proud of it, like he had made the river rise himself.
I rise and raise myself. I love the starting. I love the moving. I take the river’s pride myself!
And, he was small, and little, and cold; and he could destroy everything. If he so to desires, he could slurry everything. But I don’t want to parody anybody’s greater love anymore. No more, no more!… I shall be a cherisher on my own. Right until the very last star loses its brightness, right until the gods become tired of being gods themselves– I shall be in agony with the showers of all charging, rewarding betterment; as if betterment were my deity, compass, greatest work of the mode, greatest tomb of the everyman, chapel of the everyman.
Have you also learned that secret from the river?
Duo Mania… DUO MANIA…
The lost lovers of Manila. The lost
ETHANISTAN PARTHENOS!– Oui! Duo!
Peut ma langue pas échouer moi… Oui!
Peut ma langue ne pas être… ELSKER!!
(I love the secrets of the pink river!)
And I don’t have no time to revel in the touts of my ineptitude.
The star behind the cape is a prurient. I have demystified un Eart’.
Yearner, yearner, liar by omission!– Doth thy spell the palms of your disinviteds
By the callous of vocations, vacations, and yearner’s fabrications?
Bellow, the hoe is awfully busy! Bellow below,
But please don’t make me go through the valleys again– it feels like unjustifiable hell–
The well, the well– the dirgey markings of the indigent detractors– re-tying, re-crying,
The microcosm of the Rampantess– Avert and avenge me, Lover and Brawler, avert
And avenge me! I hope I did not ruin your good. (I know I ruined you good.)
I have tried for months to outrun you, Pacifist! I have bartered and I have opined
With the heavyweights of your cities. I have pirouetted, have succumbed, have
Reprieved… In the patois, I have shaken the tree that is ill from your leaving,
And the greasiness of it all has flourished and have filled (TALK! PLEASE,)
The perfect spirit through fanning displeasures. (TALK TO ME!) (The fans
Don’t co-own shit and spirit.) So many ecstasies making me feel weird.
So many undertones of race and age and classism. Of course, your priority
Is to the above, and the above will be bowed to. But I am
Too intelligent yet so able to be caged. In the chapel, I am
Too good for altercations, (Where is our time?) (Priority!)
Bugs and gulags and gravitas; (When is our time?) (Priority!)
The handiwork of gods of powerlessness. (May my tongue)
Sending you my heart and kisses and my (please betray not)
Best-fuckin’-wishes redelivered through (what is not my tongue.)
Corporate greed through the corporate mice– (I could have married)
The price of thrice a bandit– banditry, vocational. (You, Truman,)
Mais no, my Lover. There, in the barracks, the (man of my time,)
Pundit is President! (man of my tongue! Where is our time? When?)
I am the rendering odometer. I am the artisan of godsped gaudy–
The beauty in the maudlin come-down, the hushing of turpitudes,
Revisitors floating and fluttering when love begs for us all– Well, I
Do love a nasty misdirect so long as it’s a sacrifice of sorts. Abject
Troupes of the the powwows and parallels, and the paralegals at every stage, every corner
Of the cursory inquests to the sanatorium, pampering thine-selves, thine shelves. Shelves
With foot baths into watercolor and ziplocks– and lost love that is red in something which is
Fresh in French, and not in French. There is no such thing as time. There is no such thing as time.
Adios, Dios! Adios!
I may never see me again.
(TRUE TONGUE, DO NOT BETRAY! I had betrayed… I had been betrayed…)
I wonder how true man’s doing– probably out there, trapped in the real world, wishing he were with anybody who isn’t me. I finally wonder who will make me rise again. (Harness– harmless. I am the perfect harvest.)