The only place I've found poetry this millennium is in a title - and how. To easy answers, driver. Follow that bloody discharge. It's running a corporation like a running sore, consider it a run scored, I'm running to the mama matrix most mysterious, that's where I'll be safe.
So I felt lost because I forgot what holding a cigarette felt like. Because I'd forgotten what jonesying felt like. Except in the philosophical sense. Which seems to penetrate the deepest. And poetry takes a cut.
The only thing I can think to do is to take purpose in Pink Floyd. Learn a bunch of new live music tricks, get a second board like the college prof moonlight musician suggested. Maybe not worry about steel-toed boots just yet. See what shape this landscape is in, see what contours I form as a fluid, fluid is fine, I think, I'm fine with it, the path of least resistance. When resisting does not seem futile, I will... Uh. Huh. When woodsprites are sonic soul. Well. Spring? A new way to say hoooray? Let's not do concepts. But can we meander? I don't know if we can.
I don't see any particular appealing apocalypse. I don't see no career path. I don't know where these curves lead. To steel-toed boots? To job training programs? To George Street? I don't know. I'm lost. The bronze standard of tired, so I guess I'll sleep, via the vallie so low.
there is a lot to say for a, title.
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