Thinking not of the stairs but of this:
“then sadness following the World Series
if it weren’t for the order of words
we would be barbarians”
–Michael Davidson
Country milk still in the blood & a tepid attempt at redress, not to sleep.
October had been very green, one mingled cascade in the still life pursuing the sentiment out to the edge of the frame
& there, arm & arm, they became–
Spectacle:spectator:friends in name only.
I would go the game. In my mind though, & not in your Volvo.
Trying to stay extremely tall & violent on the mound. Perhaps it went out by mistake & I’m sorry.
All occult phonemes abandon their friends. Symbonese liberation imposters that gather in wet reedy depths of the park. But not for a book club, not from some training in weapons use. Not for cognition is anything. It was called Eden.
October 31, 2005 * 12:37 pm
