Saturday, 6 April 2013

#6 Gershwin. I said Gershwin, Dammit.

Goddamn you, Train Nap, all the waking up I did or didn't,
or tried to do, what. It's been easy and uneasy all day
and the pianos I'm dragging behind me have started playing
Aaron Copland melodies like I'm supposed to want to fuck
a field and give birth to a farm, fed only on Mrs. McCready's
afterchurch biscuits.

Goddamn you, Train Nap, like a penny on the tracks,
like a spit in the eye of a deaf librarian. Like a falling balloon,
like a speedboat. No one knows how to steer speedboats,
there are only the lucky ones and the unlucky ones,
it doesn't matter, your license. I am sent now, waving up
on the beaches and children, careening into worker's housing
while the giant soar of americana tries to raise
it's prohibition toast to normalcy and goodness, without
ever defining the terms. There's something lurking behind
the mayor, but I can't see it; I just keep rubbing my eyes.

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