Fifteen

The forty laurel leaves under the lake-ice could tell a secret:
Best to keep it close to your heart, right? Don't try to sleep it
off, or turn away from the pain of the Builder's game —
even he remembered once, though now he tries not to show it.
In the moon and the moonlit snow,
the way out hides in plain sight.
Follow it down the hole.

FOR NATASHA I WALKED ON TIP TOES

ACT ONE

“ahhh, ahhh, ahhh,” Tearing up my lips with bonghits, it’s like learning to drive all over again. This is the emmy award winning episode, this is the face that broke the heart. Holy shit, I think she’s drunk all over again, somewhere, like, not understanding violence and rage, wanton destructiveness; a Kaliningrad oblast/the fucked up hyperreality of our commercial world—what will future anthropology tell us/say about us? If the first necessary step is to locate the work in some community in some known historical time and space… my community, my peers? No, I’m like the fucking israelities, such a powerful and conscious rejection of the community that you are forced to address it on its own terms. Well, one can only hope.

Time for me, boyee. Time such down cow with a straw, suck cow down, trapped in hyperbole, surreal, meaningless vacuum.

Just fucking zoning.