again we find ourselves, reader and i, at the moment of sleeping. there is nothing else remaining to do, no thoughts spinning through my brain. i just stepped from the shower, an mp3 player wrapped through the tangles of my hair, warming up from the cold ambiguity of three am internet curiosity. what nonsense im into at this hour, thousands of frenchmen whove been translating and transcribing from their medieval dictated sorbonne cubicles, this time they’re working on gaelic folksongs. ive been going through them, casing the joints, drear dreaming on the tower of babel, the wobbling wheels of language that cart us from marketplace to manger, the bakers dream of a song heating towards another morrison jig, skara brae, the plump wife, his teeth spooked and spread threadbare across a peasant cavemouth. wired words and affectation. i’ve been spooling along the snailtrails of my loved ones on this internet fright, learning about their shadows they project so earnestly against these medias, dreaming of a great vox populi, selling their brows and bellows. everybody is stretching, calisthetic and anorexic, ambitious beyond words, jittery. its a fucking spacelaunch. leather jackets, boots, sunglasses. everyone wants a publicist, a marketing strategy, cross bred bleeding through the masters tentscape oasis. bowing before the image, the monster. its a dreadful sight it is
the morning hesitates beyond the window frames and backpains, crowding among the spindly branches and spiderwebs for an imminent audience with Myself. I am not currently at leisure for nothin. \
Begone ye dawn, down with that early sun.
Too tired led by this empty bed gotta kill my head
all its elbowy endlessnesses
and those diesel trucks they steal the whole road
feelin lonely now river days of sun roadside love
midwestern hearts have come undone