I laugh at myself pouring a cup of water to explain to you the river It is the flow of it Try being still feel its torrents rock your body We worry its purpose pondering an engulfing ocean just so it can delight again in the whispers of the mountains to provide pretty life–sustaining babble Go to the river and hear yourself
Took a dog down elevator to second floor. There was a dog there. We stood facing it for a long time. I’m surprised no one has come to use the elevator during this time.
A woman with a dog gets tired of waiting, and she takes the steps. Another women comes out, waits, and takes the steps. I go back up with elevator instead of down. Who is going to take care of that dog?
At the ground floor there are a group of gentlemen. We play a kind of soccer with a small ball like a heavy ping-pong ball with dust pans as goals. We all know how to play very well, each know each others weaknesses, only one side has one’s politics, the other another. This annoys me because something like we wouldn’t be having to play footies here if we joined forces.
I’m on an annual bus trip for the third year. It’s so kinda tour bus. I’m an employee of sorts. It’s festive. We are just about to complete the tour. People remenice about a concert that I wasn’t a part of: Gene Wilder, Luke Wilson, and Richard Prior. I’m surprised I wasn’t part of that concert.
Everyone has shot glasses, the circular kind with a truncated stem with a sweet whiskey liquor. I’m encouraged to drink. I give in and drink.
It’s so jovial and festive, in a corny way. I spill some liquor as the bus winds its way around. Suddenly, I have a giant shot glass, bigger than my head: too much joviality and “Tonight the Streets are Ours” cues as exit music. I have a hard time keeping the drink straight and people laugh as the sticky substance laps over my hands. I drink from the giant glass and the bus goes up a hill, now in day light, and the scene freeze frames with the liquid pouring out onto my cheeks and the music turned up like the punchline to a movie.
Embrace me I brave my petty disgraces See me dissolve my little mazes
Let us love — rather than correctly — let us love well Rather than encourage loving less encourage learning how They say experience and self–control both are rather new well, ever since they burned the witch with her broom and cooked the medicine–woman in her stew Let us refrain from punishing groping in the dark and be glad we are embracing our desire for the art Let us be enraged at doing poorly and lack of practicing Let us show them how it’s done with discretionary loving