To Me

Second song's not as done as I thought it was. Celtics are winning with their 2nd string. Got my yearbook. Friends are graduating tomorrow. End of an era. Bygones, memories, be gone. Miles Davis. Growing facial hair. Need a shave, Bobina insists I grow it out. Obedience Whatever. And the thoughts. Sibilance, sibilance, I have it. So much work trying to produce it out. Pet peeves.

Brain mush throwing out of a window, the silver platters, on a snowy orange evening, onto the Brooklyn hard concrete, and the trumpets sound softly. Walking pace, legato, staccato, moving towards whenever. Conventional inkjets. A sorry SWAT team, some lonely mechanics, some sombre movement amongst the gently swaying hedges. Upper class, middle class, lower class : Little kid kicking stones down towards Maplecrest, little bills in the crack addict's shaking, aching, breaking hand. Pictures. Pictures. And portraits. Sketches and we are nothing more than red, orange, and green spattered onto the landscape and tearing into my visions. We inhibit, we inhabit, we are, we were, we will be, we will have been. All souls, all gymnos, All Blues. Words, words, words. They speak the mind and they are the mind, as you are.

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