I grow silly-styled bored of the characters in the
book on this train lift.
I want to write about the characters
in my primeval comedy.
the lovely morose dance through the blue night all
the way to rose mornings,
with fits and feet and appetite and
death, always death around the
corner,
but which corner?
it's unreliable until this cool story.
and my point-of-view has windows and women and tigers and paintings.
pigeons don't think about these things.
on the train lift waiting for the framed day.
who knows what they will say on walls.
breakfast for dinner, tall.
on the swollen patio just east of Maple Ave.
a modern day scarecrow.
with a favorite song.
thrown off the bus.
now reading about bounce wrecks.
while farting in a rocking chair.