Your something this and your something that and did you get enough sleep this month, this week, this year is a strange one. You go to interviews you write and you think and you write until your hands come off or it feels like they do and you try to breathe and you ride your bike up and down hills and hills and something like the shortness of the day closes your eyes for a moment and you are up again and doing it again there is no next day only a sense of again again again. There is the disc, glowing the sky, our sky, a musical place with animals and yams to hang on. Some sort of glow comes from inside our hands, our writing hands are re-wiring and something goes, making sounds as it goes, making me (us) ((our multiplicity of selves)) into something more, something rich with sound and unconnected rhythms, something about loving makes loving easier, something about all of this regarding the frightful truth. And friends in strange hats make things easier to see, to understand the roil of sounds inside, axle grease, refusal to fight, switch and be progress, be all over sound, be fire trickster and range rider, steel tube rider, with wheels below and a shocking sense of hair getting thinner, urgency of poetry and urgency of torque, legs, et cetera. Something about memory and smell. This, then again, maybe this other.
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."