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