Electric light's a tyranny - how can one choose not to illuminate the night hours?
Light pollution's no wonder except that we can see the stars at all.
And at the same time I struggle to darken the white page.
Are ideas light or dark or particles or waves or shadows of quantum spin...
Am I darkening the page (darken my doorstep) or lighting the night?
Certainly not with anything too bright... I feel like a monkey flapping its lips
"Abadabadaba said the monkey"
But that means I love you... (and oh how I do)
"Down there where the monsters lurk in the depths of your internal being", vamps Jean Shep over radio static, his words bouncing back from 6/18/65, ringing in my ears around the early hints of inherited tinitis... my father calls the high sounds "crickets" but I don't detect enough range.. more like a wine glass someone played 20 years ago on the table after dinner, the sound remembering to echo again.
My teeth are rotten. Those that still have feeling hurt.
But I still want new lips to kiss, if I can't have the lips that fit (not enough tar to keep cinderella)
Blank pages are infinitely empty.
I used to be across the street.
Many nights at the neighbor's house.
Days in school. How many? More days than I recall. Which is to say I recall so little...
Mary had a little school - it was full of horror.
They're closing them now.
Perhaps if the prisons burst we'll learn the new laws.
RIP the black rhino, whose horn is now more valuable than ever... whose call, if we could only emulate...
but we'll never be a rhinoceros. We're just monsters now. We'd like to change but we can't.
I'll stand at the asterisk, and put my head into the outdoor air, and hoot. You do it too.
*
It wasn't a very good hoot. I'll never be an owl - I'm the last human left.
I and you.
Was it unfair to place demands on you?
Well.
Here we are.
Perhaps we'd best promise to call, and you can let me out in the morning.
I'll find coffee somewhere. I know how to do it. So don't mind turning the page. You'll find work to do.
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