|Andy's Palm Reader
andy got in a cab.
it was almost like an suv cab and he was alone.
the suv-ing of the cab made him even more alone.
andy was always alone speeding down the
los angeles highways in the joy of salt.
the cab driver was a big fan of andy's
tv show and told him how he
watched, with his family, on a rug made of circling braids.
braids made of fabric the family had had.
andy was listening to the cab driver and drawing
braids on his leg.
we just want to be loved. thought andy.
andy's long hair tangled with his long long beard
in the salt wind of the air flowing through the suv.
the cab driver said about the light from the tv
that it was hovering on his daughters' faces.
andy was the light
hovering on the cab driver's daughters' faces
as they sped towards the ocean where andy's palm reader lived.
|A Dock And A Mural
every crab shack
in florida will now be held in contempt.
(held responsible for the music that shack plays)
(and the way that music makes you and me feel)
(the sexualized distress.)
simply existing within the american borders will
no longer absolve them of their sandy carelessness
and the way their promise of an escape hatch
turns so rapidly to desperation.
it is a lack of faith makes the days
(those joyed and those
so very long and waiting.
lack of faith and presence of desire.
excess of remembering.
they turn their wrists towards the gods.
the grey presses upon the soft and steady pulse.
the soft and steady pulse,
like radiosending, relaying, calling.
the velocity field for sound waves is irrotational
though unamplified it calls.
a call is a sonic seeking.
the vanity of seeking
heard with fingers. haptic heraldry!
in the finally so dark night.
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