The vagabonds are all rummaging into the heaps of past participles. Toiling away in the winter heat, white hot and gleaming. The oceans don’t swell no more. Don’t have any waves. Don’t have any fish or swimming mammals. The weather is perfectly charming. There’s nothing wrong. Look over that way.
Stroke the calm cat in the easy chair. Breath in the simple combination of gases in your living room. Function as a remainder of an even-odd math calculation. Eat your cold cuts in the ventilated screen porch.
Your radio is broken, I know. It’s been so long since you had anything fixed. Your medications have run out. You don’t go to the dry cleaners to get your haircut anymore. Your bulging eyes are cataracted and clumsy. You insist you ain’t blind. Your dark bed hums in the deep night.
Now, without getting too insipid, how is it that you attempt to get hips bucking and rumps shaking with heavy melodies that are culled from gravestones many others have torn at. They’re all rotting now in a row of corrugated homes. Even if you put the images you say onto film (or, at least into binary code), how do you really think that comes across?
I’m not one to question though. I’m just jealous and squeezed with want and need.