to deal with words is like to deny what's inside
a sphere
build entirely of me
where there is something
without a given name but with a smell
rough to touch
monkeyasspink
and the output echoes from inside my skullbones
there are old fridges resting in the grass
and strange animals you never see
until four in the morning
also the bigger ones you never see
just smell
just guess
like the words you say to an anorexia-woman
like the words you would say to a preacher
like the words you say to a cassier
like the words you would say to a man
who
finally
made it
make it
like up
and down
the unnecessary path
walked by anybody
talked to anyone
the muscels that hold my neck
like wires strings of an ancient stratocaster
receiving the flange
of an eyemovement the sudden smile
the delay of a unwanted smile
the reverb of a hand that's too different to touch me
and the fire
and the fire
that keeps them apart
talking 'bout words
dealing with words
talking 'bout words
dealing with words
seldom
touching the grass
touching water
touching me
the green shirt waving in the evening wind
the green shirt waving in the glory
in the condemness
of what could hide
fear
behind the words
fear
of judgement
fear
of never-could-be-the-same
after
after
after it's said
after IT is alone
and IT can not take it back
because somebody is watching and always
the day after IT wakes up and knows
something
like a treason
is in the air
the crows will all be gone but the one that always stays
will watch you
will watch you
will turn the head
and listen
to a language that's strange
like dealing with words
like dealing with words
dealing with words.
How To Listen To The Music Of Albert Ayler
shoot the bear
plant this tree
drinksmokefuck
build that house
go up the stairs
don't ask questions
don't plant this tree
build a road
build a new road
that road we could walk together
blow it
shoot the bear
don't listen to them
get crazy
get mad
kill this bear
climb that tree
put the sand slowly in their bucket
their old things
drive hard
don't wear
pants
ride low
let you grow this beard
blast the road
that we together
die young
and only one time in your life are you allowed
to write a poem about the decaying body of
Albert Ayler the saxophone player floating
down the East River
Coughing starts
coughing.
yawning starts the same;
if meaning would start meaning,
I could get along with this.
But it doesn't.
it starts the smell
of being fed up
things been said every each minute
because they're coming back;
like dogs no one wants
like the flowers in the hair of Billie Holiday
meaning treason
maening despise:
meaning boredom.
The movement
from one to the other
is not nesesserily
a change.
The woman you talk to is not a woman
only your longing;
the dogs are real they don't care.
Something is creeping
but their faces all turned away
easy fight
no one will notice
he lost.
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