Dirt-slicked sleeves with all places to be, the sun shining furiously.
A Chrysanthemum in my teeth, the bit of the horse and my spit-shined teeth are going out to bore in to this town. One brown, the other yellow leopard, pants frayed and stained spectacles for sight.
All people a graveyard, all silence, all night.
When the sun goes down, the little lepers climb over their mother’s bosom, they come screaming like freight trains through kegs, chewing on graphite chicken legs lookin’ to reach a bottom. I just smile and flick cigarettes, the glare of the sun all over these brand new marionettes with their truncheons in my cheeks, flecks of dirty dirt in their shadows.
“Look around, son. What do you see?”
I paused and glanced, “Nothing.”
He shook his head, tipped his hat, and that seemed to be that.
In the forest, every tree my rifle, every fire is mine and to be mine there must be a recital; let those shots go in every direction. Just make sure they find the one that’s up there looking down on us, seconding our guessing.
Bye the bayou, O beautiful one, have this Rose, I’ll hold your Chrysanthemum.
O, by the bayou, wavering banner, take me in your arms and explain how nothing’s not ever the matter and I’ll swing for the stars and shake the hornets, grab onto slivers and shimmy down bitter – there’s no cold season when your pneumonia’s pneumonic but I’ll give you a taste of a caliber days and we can just pray and pretend that it’s clay and that we are not it but of it and we might allow ourselves to be molded and told of the covenant.
If not, so be it, a thousand tons of satin inside my valves and the car drives but it is very loud and all these people are making a raucous and I don’t know if they took the liquor off my shelf or if the liquor got up and walked out.
Bye the bayou, O glamor, O fame, take this Chrysanthemum from me and let it not take away your days.
Yes, Bye the bayou, in so many ways.