The Mauve Notebook
“Say it enough times and it's August.”
—Geoffrey G. O'Brien, “Three Years”
On a set you need bush rebels,
that numbing little chair while passing.
If we knock 'em out
seven precincts are going to show up.
It looks like you don’t need oil.
I think it’ll be fine.
Did she think that might be good,
or for the man who listens to it,
nothing to be done or thought,
(section pending)?
Or for the man who listens to it,
an abrupt yawn, history or the other.
Home economics. Dr. Singalong
can’t find his way back.
I don’t know about that, but
at her lamps do you still see
the awkward ceremony, too serious?
Leave it that way, imperfect start beyond
where I was going.
Prison outside the perpetual sonata,
the only anxiety,
since you wonder what they don’t do,
from your red zero heart page
waiting to touch your face.
Although they know about it and
it literally doesn’t exist,
no, stay up and go to sleep,
unless it falls on the right side of the brain
positioned for so many forgeries,
moon nugget...
I don’t cut 'em any slack.
Assault on a clean front,
that’s a lot to be turning into.
These residents, they start throwing 'em early.
Continue to open your door to mud!
Take the noon balloon to Rangoon,
gutta percha academy,
to the place of ice cream,
because, really, what difference does it make?
When it was time you went home.
Tears and flowers,
see how dirty your hands are.
We had a lovely dime.
Soon it will be seven I ask you.
