Edison
big glass body with a tiny filament
inside. Yes, the light is bright. Yes,
it is, all you can say about it it is.
Even more.
The filament, unignited, unhoused, on
foot, requests my empty plate.
The tide of history spins Hiroshige's
wave, and what's empty in it
now is the shape of a coin.
Sideburns growing on glass.
At a table on the other side of the restaurant, the only woman at a table of five men stands as she nurses an infant, pacing from chair to chair, reaching over the head of each man to retrieve food and drink. They are loud and they have claimed the entire restaurant as their own for the night. They tread the aisles between diners speaking loudly on cell phones, and she nurses the baby standing next to complete strangers as they eat and have their own quiet conversations, having come in from the bitter cold for refuge, fuel, a chance. They are obviously wealthy and recognize no others, us. The mother sways at her hips, the infant's head cupped in a ringed hand surging with milk, belted in a sling, its dangled feet hanging raw wiring to be braided to the motherboard of the table itself. hunger
I will build a mountain. A mountain that keeps out God. I will point an elbow to the sky that when I last saw you You can keep all that you know You can keep all of it When I was their age I had not even a quarter what they got and was a hundred times better off I'm only in my fourth decade but in the light of this digital sun e'en as fine a pussy as mine looks unfinished Like there's something missing about it Made to look unready Like my pussy should be wearing headphones you told me something I promised I would never forget, and I've found I can't remember what it was I remember you telling me, the moment you told me, how I leaned to you, and watched the side of your jaw move as you told me, and I remember you wore stubble, and I remember seeing the white in it, down by the corner of your jaw, and I remember the feeling of growing vast and proud as you told me, because you were telling me, telling it to me. But I don't remember what it was you said. But I remember the moment. The moment seems to speak still
inside. Yes, the light is bright. Yes,
it is, all you can say about it it is.
Even more.
The filament, unignited, unhoused, on
foot, requests my empty plate.
The tide of history spins Hiroshige's
wave, and what's empty in it
now is the shape of a coin.
Sideburns growing on glass.
At a table on the other side of the restaurant, the only woman at a table of five men stands as she nurses an infant, pacing from chair to chair, reaching over the head of each man to retrieve food and drink. They are loud and they have claimed the entire restaurant as their own for the night. They tread the aisles between diners speaking loudly on cell phones, and she nurses the baby standing next to complete strangers as they eat and have their own quiet conversations, having come in from the bitter cold for refuge, fuel, a chance. They are obviously wealthy and recognize no others, us. The mother sways at her hips, the infant's head cupped in a ringed hand surging with milk, belted in a sling, its dangled feet hanging raw wiring to be braided to the motherboard of the table itself. hunger
I will build a mountain. A mountain that keeps out God. I will point an elbow to the sky that when I last saw you You can keep all that you know You can keep all of it When I was their age I had not even a quarter what they got and was a hundred times better off I'm only in my fourth decade but in the light of this digital sun e'en as fine a pussy as mine looks unfinished Like there's something missing about it Made to look unready Like my pussy should be wearing headphones you told me something I promised I would never forget, and I've found I can't remember what it was I remember you telling me, the moment you told me, how I leaned to you, and watched the side of your jaw move as you told me, and I remember you wore stubble, and I remember seeing the white in it, down by the corner of your jaw, and I remember the feeling of growing vast and proud as you told me, because you were telling me, telling it to me. But I don't remember what it was you said. But I remember the moment. The moment seems to speak still
posted by J. Neptune at 5:08 AM
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