A Million Futures of Late
February 1, 2000
Feb 1, 2000
There’ll be no town-going today;I’ll be wind-rattled and listento the window’s answering racket.I’ll watch flies manifest from glassthen rub the rust and sadness off.I’ll have my lapses into slapsticksof accent and stutter, girl and mother.Flies will spin a crown of woozy cartoonstars for me.I’ll roll my eyes back, thinking;I’ll be the picture of flightiness today.Assumptions will spill from my ears--a brain storming out in furious herds;all summer my brain will be a pastureof tall, hissing grass, a sibilance intent onrising to character air.
Fly forgeries of z wallpaper in my room: chainsaws, prop planes, wind forcing itself through. It’s a fact that the skull makes room for the brain by talking; the brain shakes like a curse in the cranium as something dark crawls out of my mouth. The radio is pouring weather I must knit into a shawl. Evenings require a shawl and the wrong love, the wrong noise of one’s wrong thinking. Flies come into the brain every last inkling into swarm, into arias of amnesia and treble thoughts. No one can shoot something that small.
I will just shoot off today; I’ll justblurt out argot in the rawest haze.Today I’ll be snoring at the kitchen tablewhile the radio slips into passing traffic.I will be sworn by. I’ll be clairvoyantby keeping half in the dark. I’ll knowapropos out-posts by staying home today;by haunting my own enlarged atticunder worried clocks drum-hummingme down to make me one of theirvernaculars--believe me,black hole, you bright microscopia,you know best how long I’ll standstitching up grass-stained synapsesin devotion to invisible demands, whateverthe invisibles demand.
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February 01, 2000