The unit of human
noise is a bazaar
likewise matches are blown from a windowsill
the complication bred mistakes even before
it became this complicated little errors like love
returned to and is hollow and empty yet
there is still
the noise the damned noise from the street the
streets
an avenue that is
an ocean but
in the middle
of land why
say dry land there
is no coast
there are no beaches no
places to get off
no reflection or
edge shadows may bend about at
right angles
sure, though, there are bits of mirrors
you might see two objects reflected your face
someone else's smile but it is spread out there are no
corners
for calendars only
a dizzying shimmer here.
so there are no
days and day-ends, no
horizons that are constant
and my head slips
with the weather and the sentiment of the noise .
and there are ghosts
there is not that
tide that meets change or resistance
no glass balls from ]apanese fishing fleets to hit
rocks
or beachcombers
no shore activities, congress
of old faces old
places here in the middle
these hang on like the rain. The ocean is too large to ever
become
a polluted, overfamiliar scene unless
rocks are exposed
here and there and hang on to cultures for a few thousand
years
and therein lies our difficulties. You and I have drunk
from
the same coke bottle the same important echo source
so many times been battered about cruelly and recognized
it
wanted to get off for something new or throw old things
over a shoulder but the commerce is done to us. we are old
nouns,
nouns that follow sentence order, acted upon, nursed.
There is no pride to be had in that constant act.
She brings me water and acts
familiar
is a comfort to the photographer and I
am fully bored and mounted from afar as postcards;
reputation and wealth are the negative
there will be relief from the posing of our heads
when we are spread thin like only the most familiar
mountains
and then may die going about business as ordained by
life.
Is my life indeed that which is slowing
progress
are old ideas saluted and posed for like whores that have
become
over the years
free the act so familiar
the tides outlast the moon ?
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