I gaze up to their cielo heights.
Some days I don't get out of bed at all,
just throw on history vinyl and listen to
Roaring jack out on some road or rail,
screaming nancy-wild to the emptiness
as I slink down these solitary residential streets,
a dim glow emanating in the bellies of houses
stoutly situated on this holographic earth—
this hollow, graphic earth.
Rough these days in America,
Tough these days in America.
When things get tough the tough get stuck.
It's hard these days to make enough green
To stay out of red.
But Beats. Oh Beats! How they had each other
and had each other,
how they clutched and cleaved,
whole groups of people
battling, trying to live beyond the bake.
Today, no reality; today nothing real, nothing concrete
except world and chest.
Foaming and infoamation with no human translation—
it's just non-things speaking nothings
to (no)bodies.
I sit here bow-legged in my morning gown, some
Silk curiosity, imported, she says, from Italy, she says.
Me here with stone in heart from that true blue pie in the sky
Moon in your back pocket and head on the curb
Sadness that drives this drunken madness
And I hang my summer hair out the windows of
this camino mind.
No one knows no one knows Nobody no more.
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