lardlad-lando-locovope

Took off my boots,
put on my sweater
Target practice was over for me
I hit my mark like an empty netter
Just like an eagle struck from a teewhiplash-claire-booth-james

You could play with a sinfonetta
You could show up on local TV
The drummer grooves with Henrietta
A classic duck who has forsaken E

jamz-retrovor-jamzton

I like the one with the Irish setter
Tuesday nights, a ghost lives in a tree
I may be quick but I’m no bed wetter
Just so many stories for me to see

howitzer-daughter?how

One with a swan and a girl name Leda
Making gods, not making babies
You got a crime? Well I got one better
Oh lord, how these deities be

ah-cember-when-ah-wanna

1. Your heel is on the ground. This is the established part. Your other foot is planted.
You’re moving rather quickly.
The step’s already been punched in. Too late for a refund. The follow through is inevitable.
I can’t help you.

2. Neither can I.

1. There are some angles involved that are rapidly decreasing.

2. I forgot my protractor!

1. First, the ball of your foot will hit the ground. Without incident.

2. Your toes are still floaty.

1. But it’s the middle of your foot that’s really interesting. Something’s impeding the progress toward the ground of this part of your foot.
It depends on how we define ground.

2. Okay. Is the ground anything on the ground?

1 + 2. We can agree the foot is not, itself, the ground.
And the ground is not your foot.

1. But here’s the problem – the ground – or what’s on it – has entered your foot.

2. It moves past the skin.

1. It moves into the chamber of your foot, where the arch curves like heaven and the bones might be viaducts, or freeways. And it deposits something special there.

1. I used to think it was the metal that gave you tetanus. So strange it’s bacteria, that it’s a measurement of depth.

2. I dread procedural relationships with people who have strong Long Island accents; they just end up being more careful to punish you.

1. I dread the thought of spikes.
Anywhere, not necessarily in my feet.

2. Feet are easy targets.

1. You can argue with me what an extremity is.
Feet are pretty clear.

2. So far down there, hard to monitor.
It’s not the fault of the people with the accents, it’s my fear of having to do the procedural stuff.
Clearing my throat before I call. Maybe they won’t find me if I duck.
Yeah, really I just don’t need a driver’s license, and I won’t ever have to wait in a line.

It was the year 1962
Everything was feeling fine
A young girl in a mink stole
Blocked my path
I tried to talk her out of the way
But she morphed into
A dozen young ladies
Flashed my brights
Put it in reverse

In 1312,
The great builder of the Doge’s palace
In Venice
Said to himself,
“I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING!”
And we still see that today

you know the tiniest tines
can read right through the lines
don’t step for the the spines
when you run

in your local favella
waltzing a fast tarantella
impulses in your left amygdala
catch memories

just like queen isabella
buttering bagels with fresh nutella
singing arias plain a capella
to the trees

chorus

When a boy brings you
a beetroot salad
It is not so cold
And you have to eat
And you eat the eggs
and an avocado
This place isn’t fancy.
And all the papers are in one language
You’re still eating with Walter anyway

I was given strudel
on a plane once
ten years after
swearing off eating steak in mid-air
both went fine
The views are the same
I’ve got German tourists
who ask me for una pulga de nieve
And I try to see the domes when I find them

I can’t find you sometimes
This will make me nervous
Don’t know who to call to
find out the news.
They’ll never know to call me.

There was a nice breeze
on the shore the other day
He lives in land these days
I can order the flanken or crab rangoon
Maybe a strussel or a halva
Doesn’t get too far
“You see kid,
what those domes signify where I come from
is you can’t pick your family
but you can pick em up.”

When you’re too slow to dial
to get Bruce on the phone
it’s best to go have lunch
with Walter

Feeling collegiate or maybe astute
transporting a clarinet or maybe a flute
from 181st take the a train en route
it’s a one train commute

All the passengers engaged in their individual pursuits
You notice a newspaper, behind which you spy just a singular snoot.
From the six year old gal to that bear most hirsute
If you wanna make it in this city, you need a one train commute.

Has her voracious loquacion left you feeling mute?
or is it just symptomatic of your three piece zoot suit?
I suggest donning socks if you’re wearing boots
for your one train commute

Was that little Jane Fonda on display in Klute?
Her hair was so shiny, her nose was so cute!
I admired the poster they made for that shoot.
and I saw it at the cinema on a one train commute.

when you arrived
there were boxes of pockets and caskets of hair
as you shift into drive
as you packed up the buttons and walked down
the stairway

here
here’s a reminder
an eye through the view finder
you could have been kinder
too

shelves open wide
for the closets composites as you rosin the chairs
no one has died
but you know that’s a lie so stop putting on airs

here
here’s a side winder
when you try your hardest to find her
but she could have been kinder
too

you couldn’t decide
the madonna and child or the painting with squares
mathematics applied
the fridge was still full with those green bartlett pears
ripe

here
here is a binder
stick this one in your grinder
how could you have been kinder
too?

Look,
I’ve never told anyone before
but all I’ve ever wanted is to leave.
To put my foot on the gas pedal and
close my fucking eyes.

And the wind will smell so good,
and everything will smell good
when it’s behind me.

The burnt toast
and the used condoms,
and the chlorine that dries in her hair,
because everything smells
better in the past.

Even horse shit,
lying in piles on the street,
even that will smell good.

There’s nothing great
about taking a horse to work,
there’s nothing efficient
about a horse,
a horse has its own ideas
and doesn’t want to go
and all the apples,
all the sugar cubes in the
world can’t save you.

But cars.
Cars don’t want anything.
I mean, cars want what I want.
Cars want to burn everything.
Cars want to burn everything old
and turn it into the future.
What matters to a car?

What matters to a basket? Holding.
What matters to a cushion? Giving.
What matters to a table? Bearing.
What matters to a car? Moving.

One by one
One building replaces another.
This town becomes the next town.
On the shoulder
a raccoon takes one step forward,
but that is all I know about that raccoon.

To turn around and check
would be a catastrophe.
Right?
To turn around is to invite disaster.

And the burnt toast
and the used condoms,
and the chlorine
that dries in her hair.

I remember
she was wearing her black swimsuit
with little stars on it,
and if you looked
you could pick out the constellations
Orion was on the back.

It was September,
and it was almost too cold to swim,
but not quite.
And I bought her an orange Popsicle.

The past will just keep getting bigger,
no matter what we do.
Our task is to chase the future.
The future is a weak and slender creature,
deserving of our love.