dearest discovering the dirt on your fat face,
in these lovely fevers… “WE WILL NOT GROW UP”
and do take full responsibility,
with honors of black and white,
minor and major monuments,
being ratified by the harpsichord player,
that I am in love with.
ALAS, in love without a porch to play on…
in this north carolin-ian way,
i will say it creeps up,
like the cotton falling on my head from “ALL THAT BANGING”.
signed,
where is the nearest gospel church?
dear girlie girl,
you are so madwomen-ish beside that green grass,
can you see your obsession in threes?
You know you can’t wear that coat anymore,
because it’s going back to the farm,
where “very good” is always boring.
can you hear me?
or do you hear the blue-er grass orations so-to-speak?
so it goes
and goes
and fills your cup with outside hymns,
vertical grand pianos,
squaring of partners with foes,
all dressed in history’s Woolworth face.
so, clean your rusty face,
go for a bike ride,
and listen to words written in,
“the music from our town”…circa 1956.
signed,
it’s the rule of my game.
i spy with my little eye(s)...
dear Harvey(s) & Black-ie(s),
