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Every One of Me’s Got It. I’ve got it. You know that. I know that. Not everyone’s got it, but I certainly reruns do. Every one of me tries to spell his own name from the tallest tree, from the tippiest branch you can snap your fingers to. Just a bunch of god damn chimps. And that’s not the amethyst of it. Think on this—the frozen river, above the thawing rivulets of fish, above the river bed you now sleep on full of smooth stones colder than her feet under the mossy blankets. She’s never coming back. (It's not like she’s dead one of me says, she’s just out of the box you delivered. Oh yeah? Very funny.) If it was something you did. If it was something you didn’t do. If it was nothing but going right through the red flooring it. Or maybe A or B or C or D— multiple choices you never thought of. Plethoras, myriads, biscottis and bozos. Chances, consequences, cupcakes and chumps. There’s not a word that rhymes with it. You know, even a chimp’s hands will jump to cover his erectile function when the boss jungles in. You didn’t know that? Well, now you probably don’t either. As usual. Just smart enough to get wet in the shower before plugging in. Ouch. That’s got to hurt every time. And it does.
Were rooms without walls before, try cantilevering any one of them now. You don’t have the cheese, you petard. You would have had to saw every circumlocution into blocks just to prevent them from thawing, sawdust be damned. How’s that for global warming your hands by the fire? It’s a pit! Ice age? What ice age? You don’t need any more ice. It’s cold enough already. |
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