Float there above the icey waters like a butterfly with one wing flapping

flying, restive — then falling

sitting in the air and plunging into the sea all at once

freezing

Where am I without you and me

and her where is she?

she is frozen at the bottom of the sea, she is buried in the earth

and her face is black as coal and her hands are white as snow

Like a female miner wheeled on a stretcher to the morgue in a story I read a long time ago

and dog-eared for another day, but it’s not the same

or I’m not the same because things change

and that's how the Queen gets charged with murder

Swimming in the headline updates on the front page

and I cannot see anything but what is right in front of me

this is a lie, and I can see anything I want in my mind

but where is it, and how, and how?

Back home again, I’ve been gone too long, don’t know where all the time went

yesterday is over and nothing but a dream and that’s so tired

its gone and dead and so on — so thank you Vonnegut

you’re dead now and so on

And on that note, when everything falls through a hole in the floor

and all the college bowls roll in the New Year with a storm of glory and hope

forgotten for the rest, and where am I? In this mess — am I still Dreaming?

The world falls apart everyday, but it can be built again

It can be built again and again and again and again and again

and it's never the same, never the same as it was

can it go higher and wider

and what's left to wind, does it mean anything in the end? Not to me friend, not to me

And I don't care, I haven't cared for a long time

throw me into the night without past or future, nothing but the present

but the present is gone again and here again, fleeting like a herd of deer

over the hillside, shoot

shoot at the first deer and miss, shoot at the next and kiss it's head with your arrow

will it again to the center of the third's heart, and see it run off with another

it's all gone, and it's all back again, and it's all circles

in and out of time on a winter night hiding nothing but holding something back

Still hiding oneself from oneself and nothing is like it was yesterday

crank it up and turn it down, the cycles of the season

sound like the jukebox fried a wire and it all passes without notice

in the café where all the patrons laugh and drink merrily

And no one says a damn thing they’re thinking

and that means that everyone just vomits words

and who will clean that up? And who will clean that mess up

off of the tables and chairs, the tile and carpet? it won’t be me

It will be poor Tim wearing his hat and apron with nothing but a mop and a rag

and his two gallon an hour wage, and everyone sits in the café vomiting words

from their mouths into other peoples ears from their fingers onto computer screens

they shit narcotic dreams onto computer screens

And call it art, and this is what takes us away from here, though its beauty is all too fleeting

and what is it about, all of this which takes us away from here when the here that is here is constantly leaving and arriving like the trains in a German train station?

on time before you’ve noticed the time has passed

And not like the one’s that arrive an hour late, and they are late to depart as well,

but that’s not what this is about and you know this, but I don’t mind,

I’m just shitting words up on a screen like it’s a dream but that’s such a tired word,

what is it with me, with I?

A winter’s night without memory or illusion, contemplating summers past,

you are but a passing thought a snowflake falling through the air

she died died in an accident today? Who did? The girl in your dream?

What kind of accident? The kind that was no accident.

That’s so unfortunate, and I did it too, and I did it too, and no one even knows, they are all fools, I don’t know where I am going to, tomorrow is an eternity away but I know where I’ve been, let me float on the surface of everything


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