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Ante-Room 505.00781128795453

to swell a progress

the moment caught - the time clasped or lazily guestured at
the relentlessness of the sun and bright trees
the massive microscope trained on the silence
of human hope or hate - something emergent and pastel in a fuzz
of beginning - a quizzical shape bending away from you:
the sexy women and the endless questions -

the sad dust keeps popping
as the lanky man chews gum or rides away over the Southern Alps
in his Toyota - the deep voice - in all this rubid resonance - and indeed
a voice is heard to "cry out for meaning" and the land does indeed cry for meaning, sobs for significance, as we might cluster on a beach if only we were still alive:

there is talk of progress, and petrol prices etc
but insanity has its own rewards it has been recorded (somewhere) -
I reach for the pepper, wondering idly, if peripherally, whose hand it is that reaches:
lately the light has become so solid with its own ineluctability I am left
fingering my fingers - where is all that exciting Italian dolce vita they said we would imbibe
in the bemused and hazy vino evenings - laced with sad drinks and wondrous women
dressed only in their vaginas and a small covering - promising so much

but we are used to nothing happening for ages
and return with slick smiles to the task at hand

the clicks and insane toys and all the other cacophanies of the night scream with significant laughter as we too disappear down the twisted corridors
with grace of those who have failed perfectly and

we are completely mad and huge with ourselves
amid the gigantic lobelias and frozen leopards -
the joyful destruction continues

and we recall 'the phenomenological phallus' and the excrutiatingly lovely details

and -

-it is the details we require - progress was mentioned - but Buzz kept drinking -

we who also read the technical books and wonder about the blue one and the red one and
and the endless miles to fulfill our wire blood needs &
our quietly desperate hungers - our advancing annihilation and the wonder of tree trunks
the black hands writhing and writing everywhere -

- and indeed, the beautiful futility of the impeccable evening

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