I Can’t Be Responsible For All That’s Behind Me

That is the mind I am talking about.
That wind that fire that way of saying
something so unlike anything as familiar
as a hand, a hand on your body. My body
breaking the ocean in tiny moments of
excitement. Excitement like a chair, like
an idea in an evening, something not even
pretty, not even false. You are beside me,
Mountain, Face, you’re like wallpaper,
swallowing kites. Nothing but non-sounds
in gone hollowed rooms. The rooms have been
closed forever, the rooms have been sad
forever. As with everything there are all
kinds of sadness and it comes to the
parties. You and all the parties. Your face
as a tiny machine, a tiny machine at night and so likely.
Like fog, the warning was strong and perceptible.
This thing to do in the country! Yellow yellow
house to go home to, excitement all over the ocean.
Responsibility like watching. (All these women
making lamps.) A bedroom. I miss loneliness and what it
causes, a moon that says look, the moon the same
moon moaning itself, er, ak, it moves to tomorrow.
Everything is connected to the fault line in the rug, like
California came inside, like it needed to sit down,
broken. Everything not counting nothing, which
itself deserves praise. What I mean is farewell,
go on and do great things; the ocean today the ocean
all over the ocean is always the ocean, our faces.


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