last pedestrian trade reports.
I'll have it in remembering. In
writing.
There is a junk yard
with every screen
and every part, unless it is not
possible, there is a field where I am
yours as all.
I've been stopped on the hours
at crosswalks and told the whole
balloon will burst a desert full of
skeletons, but only by people from
pulpits, through bars, the podium,
microphone, or book. Hungry?
bring your belly down below your trousers
and eat. I want the bone. I want the vertebrae
and brain stem. There's one where you
beat me down a lullaby grave dance,
down with the cockroaches and rats
in the sewer water, a fiend scavenger fiend
for whatever you got.
Tiss tiddy tiss to a man what
potent supposed to be ambled out and
the line lady crackers tell me what
to walk the lattice smooth with the
back of my shoes. Just like school. Its
caterpillar grass, but there's one where the caterpillars
tell us what to do from behind the
magnified glass in pirouette agony.
III
The only reason i'm not wet
is the umbrella. Hot?
Too hot? I'll turn on the air
conditioning to keep you
reasonable, but i will sleep
the day away. Its turned
to tar mack, I cant go out
in this, my blood will boil
my brains. She cries
go out, go outside, i go outside
everyday and everyday i bring
back beans, you know how i get
them, i go out there, outside.
I try not to cry. I stick my face
in the ice box with the ice and
an empty box of fish. The fish is fine.
The fish with lemon butter
skewer sticks, the fish on
a flat stone, on a flat stone
by the fire, fish on the river
bank flat stone seared up over
the hot coals with the water
spray cold on my thighs,
upright for the wind rush me
tickle bumped and bush out
for the salamanders to gauk,
back down on the pit, face
greased smoke and fingers
buttered lemon fish to eat.
On the bank. But the box
is crumbs and the fish
was fried, but the fish
was fine. The only bit that's
not the bones, the fish is fine.
the only bit I don't know
is where and how she gets
the beans. I've been out
before and seen none and nothing
but its hard to see, and I'm not ever
sure if I've enough to know
for sure anything at all about
all the spots to poach the beans.
I've no reason not to dally,
maybe dally does me in,
but I've no reason i remember
not to chat, but not just
any passer by, but time
to time I find I know not
enough of whats being said
and I dream I understand things.
Malaysia is the best bet for
the Burmese. Thailand's not
bad, but after all not bad
to flee for, a fleer's resort,
perhaps the next best thing,
Thailand. And while the treck
swims in little walking men,
its at the crosswalks I glance
round see nothing, and run.