Day 53 - 300 M.P.H. Finger Breaking, No Answers Makin, Battered Dirty Hands, bee Stung and Busted Up, Empty Cup Torrential Out Pour Blues

What am I to you but a mistake? I ask myself that. But, then I've gotten to think. Maybe I'm not the mistake as much as you are the flawed flesh of broken homes and bromide burns? Tell me your name, for once and for all, don't you wish that's how it was?

Put on that song and tell me what you think. Believe in me because you think of me kindly. I am not as flawed as I think I am, I think. It all comes down to what I want to believe.

Iterate, itinerate. Irate. Believeability faulters when you discuss the empty houses of relatives on Mars. All set up to kill yourself to live. Never to be heard from again. The weight of water in space. believe in me and I am insignificant, flawed. But it's all concerning what you want to believe. I cannot believe in you anymore because you hurt me so. I can show you the scars where the lye burned my flesh like hot ash against all the worst in the sandpaper industry. Or where my lungs have blackened from my 20 cigarettes I smoked trying to get addicted. I just wanted to hinge on something tangible. I cannot hinge on something tangible. I must hinge on something tangible. You are my love, you are my peace, you are my serenity. Grant it thusly.

--

My first experiment with playlist-based poetry. Set up the playlist on your iPod as so:

1. Joanna Newsom - "Emily" from the album Ys (I actually started writing at around the 8 minute mark of the song, so maybe meditate for eight minutes on her child-like voice first?)
   
2. Bob Dylan - "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues" from the album Highway 61 Revisited.
3. Sufjan Stevens - "All the Trees of the Field will Clap their Hands" from the album Seven Swans
4. Bob Dylan - "Mr. Tamborine Man" from the album Bringing it All Back Home
5. Interpol - "Leif Erikson" from the album Turn on the Bright Lights

Play:
Come on home, the poppies are all grown knee-deep, I know.

We are going to places where there's sadness among within the field.

Developed in the playlist. And only breaks to change sides. Not time breaks between keys. Black white up down back again in the stars settling the order with our heads cocked at this joy in bodies that don't keep. So take this and eat this the source of the light that's devoid of just what causes the light that lies stone quiet and offering. The poignant stacatto, I know.

Wake me up at dawn, Down Crescendo.

I know there are portions you'll hear forever without the hiss and an eighth note behind Juarez where gravitas fails. Negativity don't pull ya through. Hungry women there. Fingers wreaking of tobacco among the experienced. The goddess of gloom, invited among the uninvited, but always too soon. A Kierkegaard anthology. Are you asleep? You better go to where the cops don't need your authority to boast of blackmail at the post's angel of the coast, immaculate.

Inbox: Angel

Outbox: Ghost. To change and remove I know not but everything.

Bob Dylan must play piano.

Portions you'll hear forever. Wrecked the hell from Desolation Row, dredged.

Quiet, soft, azure among the flowers alive next year sitting, picking at the smaller with you my heart in purity when All the Trees of the Field Clap their Hands.

You've come home my darling, to where we are forever beneath the scarecrow cupola that sits above and sees the valley below. All the fields of others. We are close but not in heat. We are happy, we are we... We can, from here, see all the couples to come before they know it. We can seem them stumble across and finally into each others' arms. I know your name.

There's a depth-hum on the right. Maybe flourescent, but I don't want to fix it because you are too beautiful to turn away from. I hate the Byrds but I love this song. Ancient deadly streets too dead to dream. My toes too numb to step. I love you, I know your name. I know you don't exists, but I can't work on Maggie's Farm no more just to support your wanton material lust complete and unabridged, my Cassandra. Is that you? The Dark Ages--they haven't ended yet. I haven't become enough for you.

I know it helps with the lights out but just this once? Why should I sway your hips, lets move, dance away from the beat but the wood that bends and breathes under our feet. Lean over the edge and scream of divinity.

See the birds flow around us singularly (that is supposing you don't sleep tonight).

Don't bring on the lonely parts. ever. The past before we knew each other is mute and indifferent. Now, we must learn everyone anew, the language and all.

So Stay Awhile. Never Leave."

At this point, please put on "Across the Universe" by the Beatles. It's on Let it Be.