By the waters of the creek, I, at six o’clock dusk though not yet old, sat down atop the rock that bulged dry from the center of its widest fissure and wept for yesterday. At my back, no chuckling of the squirrel, only the cold chambering sound of a round and an old coon dogs ghostly cries home–nothing to feel either way–but time to time at my side, I hear the sound of sighs and cars carrying fathers home as ever before. Up the way I then walked and found no falls, no emerald gems glistening a murky bed, and Ronald McDonald to hath rotted away. No Dodo just the same. Back then along the rutty bank I walked forth in aboulie, retracing a thousand steps left to no imprint. My pain not eased amongst no Buttercup bloom, nor the remains of its fallen petals wilted red atop dry dirt, weeping again for the encyclopedia salesman's death, Father's before him, and you and I coming next to the empty shadow of a home no more to behold below not more than a broken hole in broken glass beneath my dangling feet. "Make no mistake," I say, "there is ambiguity in tomorrow. The easel has collapsed." "Make no mistake," says the echo in reflection, "but, stand tall and you shall see tomorrow's lines are overhead, ahead where steel matters less, not amongst this childish scrawl for which you sit too close to see," before disappearing into a silhouette of dusk. And so by the waters of the creek I stand and look the both ways to see the faint shades connecting same to speckle forth the picture painted whole to be of something unlike anything come before that, I beseech to say, shall lead to new firework shows exploding etherized skies of old into new Ringling trapeze tra-da-las to the sound of new rabbit ear Chirp Chirrup Choughs warbling Egyptian Fantasy curves Bel canto in cadence– You say Tomato. I say El Gato. You say potato. I see Picasso. Cicada. Da Dada. Poor Pluto. Schlimazel. Making our dreams come true... 'Doin' it our way!' Sweet creek, run softly till I end my song, for I speak not loud or long, but bleed calloused hands across fiber wire vines cobwebbing feathers together to connect nothing with nothing to chandelier drops of new moonshine setting against a billion new suns sought and found to bring light such days we shall never know. And to ye, we–the lucky elves chasing salt of the creek, lucky here to imprint feet at dawn–nevertheless say nothing matters more than what matters now. What matters most to me though is but a question, which given all this, can I now ask the meaning of all this? But, without question, am left only to answer, I don’t know, and pray Ceci n'est pas la fin. Ceci n'est pas la fin! Ceci n'est pas la fin!! Ceci n'est pas la fin! Ceci n'est pas la fin? Ceci n'est pas la fin. 

Early morning riser, hear the paperboy comes, dealing out the stories of the neighborhood bums: "Lindy lit the lawn; Loose Lag is on the run; teacher caught a school kid bringing in a gun. " White fences keep him out. White fences keep him in. In the hole of the suburbs, every day begins again. Landlocked, he calls the wind – but the wind just keeps him in sailing circles in waters of Everyman Land. No! Not today. No one listens like they did before. They hear in shapes. Circling squares made to fit, not me anymore. What's that you hear? The sounds that bound being drown by the vanguard. Lo! A siren sings a new song on the other side. Weaving through the district full of carnivores and tricks. Whistles sing the soundtrack in his neighborhood digs. Screamo hails a ride from a show. Here rises dawn. Suits late to the board room, waving out his arm. Up and down he rides the grid, gotta feed choleric kids, at the mercy ticking meter in the gridlock once again. Hearing stories that he lives vicariously in Sundry City melting pavement seeking salt light new within. 'Mother', 'Mama', 'Madre' couldn't wait to hear her name; knees bent to the stirrups sees her future now a cage. Adam's out of town. Heard of Cleve? What does it mean? Nest is now swept empty. She won't tolerate new scenes. But she'll watch them on TV– soaps and talk shows–as she cleans. While the neighbors play the act, the grapevines are bearing leaves. Outside calamity, in her bubble she can't breathe. Help the mother, father, child... Paradise is parity (perhaps parody?). No! Lo!

I just heard divalent voicings of a verb reflecting loud. Sister, sister stop doing such dreadful things. I'm bored to tears here. I rang the city. No answer, leave a message: "Give me a call when you're not so damn dull. Ring me back when you're not so flat. I'm piping pot belly parade here. I'm gonna dance to the rhythm of Da-Da-DA-DA; break the glass of fifty-four disco balls; gonna last like an April flower dying in May, like it's the last night I'll ever see the light of day." Spanish ships will spill their gold on parquet floors. Mirror mirror, who here shines above them all? Poppycock, diamonds, et. Al and flashy things. Oh! to revel in thrills, dear. Why Chelsea Change, dear. Electric Glam? Electric sham. Eclectic man? Ha! Call me back when Marc Bolan's back.

Oh, the song and dance we sing and dance, we scream and dance. Oh, what is this dance we dance?  What is this song?  What is our song to sing? Apples and oranges fall to the ground. Bitterly too young, soured are the old who watched it come and go.  Harvest comes and goes. What does it mean though? What does spring mean? I like the fall.  Here's to the fall! Here's to us all! Here's to the cantos, the unsung songs that will never be here in C' Armory "It's the War!" Blaze new arms. Paint it new and thank me when I'm gone. I fall apart inside l'art pour l'art. Chain-link me in mid-air, I'll wind-chime. Escape's not close, but it'll be mine. When its mine, you know that I'll be fine. "It's the War!" Nothing here is good. Turn the screw, push it through and BOOM the BLOOM. I think I'll stay in bed today and read 'Swann's Way' in bed today. A dream is a dream. A dream, awake, I'll dream in green of grain Combray – but wait, a leaf on the window pane falling, flying–it's all the same in frame–painted or posed, perhaps a peacock feather changing colors as the weather goes. I'll get up today because they like the straight lines. I'm a carousel, a Hyacinth Girl spinning gypsy stagged into the hills, singing "Si un puh de rêve est dangereux, revay toujours!"

"Tune in tomorrow! The show'll be back on again. Blood and biscuits– 6am," AM station to a short wave nation. Mom says, '[D]ad, pop those teeth back in!" Going North ain't so easy. Going North ain't so kind. Let's go West to California. Let's go West to ease our mind. Peanut shells and irrigation. Peanut shells dry a wishing well. Well I wish I could stay two days in front/just past Armageddon – but for now, drop the hammer down onto West L.A. Tune in tomorrow. The show'll be back on again – but for now I've lost my mind...

They came from western PA; drove a ways to California just to get away from the equilibrium, rocks and meats and hydrogen. He was James. He thought himself a wolfman, thought himself a big man, thought himself a wise man. Truth be told, he was just young gun staring at the setting sun, blinded by the gold corn. But he was saved somewhere along their way in the Midwest plains when they said… "Come and be like us: MoonBats on the warpath, shaking off the red rust, living off of fairy dust, thumbing to west coast, hoping for a miracle to see the show at Monterey” Who was who? Who was Who. At first aid, Jimi in the background playing a recovery melody for James and company. And they said, “[W]e’re just fine. Who needs a miracle? Who needs America? Who needs a cure when we’re are alive, finally alive just like Jack said we were before!" December 8, Dear James, Havent heard a thing. Mom and dad said you’ve gone away. Teacher says you’re nothing but the enemy. Preacher said you lost your way. But I bet you’re making something new. So, I addressed this to Haight ‘cause I bet your hanging out on the wharf all day…digging them warlocks…singing up the sing-sing…dropping the hat in the bucket…wondering what is magic (WHAT IS MAGIC?)...and listening to the people say… "Come and be like us: MoonBats on the warpath, shaking off the red rust, living off of fairy dust, thumbing to west coast, hoping for a miracle to see the show at Monterey”

Television sits right next to the stereo and my brain sits right next to my ear. And it hears all the words that you say but it don't mean much. We got a party tonight and that's all we can bear. I'm counting money from a paycheck that I cashed today. I bought a little bit more than was needed in spite. I met you once at disco kroger, it was very late. Limelight had let out early for the night. On Peter's check, we partied on the subway. I know you'll see me one day on Joan Rivers talking to the nation about the paper bag party situation. Yeah, I'm bringing down the beat. Selling goods to the kids one minute at a time, I know you have to keep up with my life. I gotta pose for the camera all night as you follow me 'cause I'm the next best thing to feeling alive. On G's check, we partied on the subway. I know you'll see me one day on Music Television talking to the nation about the Pop!Pop! party situation. Yeah, I'm beating down the beat.

Screaming out to Sunny Jane, "US kids have never been so SANE!"