by Carmaig DeForest (copyright 1998)

True USA,
it's falling apart completely, everyday it's the same thing as
content gets lost to format, a little ritual of pull-down menus and
keyboards and the actual stuff of dreams gone, gone, gone.

Jeffrey B. with his bearded smile, he could be behind it all or it could be
me, M-E me, wandering among the fallen leaves in Vermont way back when,
among the loaded pistols, among the take-out food from the take-down
palaces with cheap neon signs flashing to-go logos and seventeen years.  Go
back to that--talk to the old man, talk to the brown man, talk to the
Spiderman who consulted with the Asian woman back in the girls' locker
room, back at the turn of the decade, the turn of the screw, all the
loosening up, all the hat flower time-trap, take a nap, go slow my friend,
go slow, you're out of practice, you're out of shape, go wander among the
issueless trees in the metaphoric, horoscopic wonderland, listen to the
furry kittens mewing the touch, the feel, the fabric, the jungles, the
alarms, the real world, the real thing, the horror, the horror, the sighs,
the lies, the look in her eyes, the surprise in her thighs.

Count count count and remember all the teenage sex-capades down by the
creek--the 3-ways and the switcheroos and the cold, cold chill, and the
blanket man running with his oversized belly (his T-shirt so small his
belly sticks out like some cartoon in the New Yorker informational
overload) and just keep on, keep on, forget the special little package,
forget the health benefits, forget the rosy red, ruby red, polluted head,
TV-fed, brain dead: think about the children, the high-school seniors, with
apple-flushed cheeks and scars and scars, wandering 'round Chinatown with
cold cuts, cold looks, everyday I write the book, music, music, music, and
everything that might have been.

Every morning it's the same thing: dreams of substance giving way to images
of pull-down menus, formatting issues.  What's with this place?  That old,
bearded man with his pipe can't believe the hype, can't stop the presses,
can't carry on no further--unless you're counting on your fingers like some
smart-ass, first-class, overalled wanna ball--testing the water, testing a
new suit, hatching a plot to put more oxygen in these tired lungs as
kittens wander the world and think what might have been there: little
alternative universe fantasies.  It's quite a bigtopthankyouverymuch kind
of deal.

ORDER Carmaig's outstanding CD "El Camino Real" right now!

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