this is the
this is the end
this is the end of a very old sentence.
i need toast with butter i need a garden of heirloom tomatoes
i need rough hands on my legs and my hips gripped hard
i need whiskey or brandy or a warm blooded animal
i need a thing that connects all things
without having to stay up all night to contemplate them around and around while the moon watches, smiling with a hand over its mouth
i need sun, but never when i can see it, or when i'm really looking
make it sneaky.
this is the calling forth, the call for
but the keyboard is too lazy
it wears an elaborate costumes and i want whats underneath
this is where you show me
this is the attempt to breathe in
pianos say, ('no, go deeper')
('but my lungs won't open')
('then you are free to be nothing') it says
so i go so slower
when i was six my piano teacher hit a key with his finger and said
this note is 'b'
i said bees! i hate bees! i stopped playing the piano
this was a time of not quite yets and a still big sky forever opening
until it finally did and
adults shattered and
sex played it's strange b notes
while guitars began slowly strumming in.
and you know
i never knew how little i must have been seeing until now
i saw everything twice
this is the second time