Skinner In Morris Jurgensen’s dream I wrote a new poem for all the metaphysics freezing cold (and for Honor, Capital, Society, and Pipit…): You know art is the only way anger can have its place… A little less circuitry, a little more poetry? A sculpture here, a skeleton there. Make me a part of your guilt! We are a language of numbers, flowered distillation to ascent, a kiss to another percent. Here’s some blanket, here’s some summer less numb. Say something, Say Something. … … … … Well, I hope you’ve got yourself… Cry the easy way. (There is no easy way.) So we threw a big enough fit (all the while careful enough to make sure it looked like a hit) to bring down the moon. We sure are a shock! And I can name everyone who is a blue bone in America’s broken jaw. The fist of greed is steel and stolen.* * * NOW: Say something Say Something … … … … Together…* * * “I rarely just let love give what love gives,” Eve said as Winter settled into her seat of Vacancy. “I mean, look at all my past futures: flirtations with that apology of a girl, Maggie Cassidy, the Skinner in the world’s oldest poem, all those monthly drownings… One thing, though: I know we always had different ways, but I would say 5 things: 1. “I wrote so much…” 2. “I want to tell your mother you were well-written.” 3. “I’m scared of what you think of me only because it might be true.” 4. “I hope you’ve got yourself together.” 5. “I want to be your best distraction.” I only ever wanted to be just wanted to be your best distraction. But after a few years: (and I mean years mean time mean doors and frames and Typewriters Bicycles Microphones Icicles.) “My meter is breeder and seether, but all my energy is in you.” And we ended up just going through the motions, signs with no road. We had Kyle William, we had the fall frosts, what we paid compared to what it cost, beliefs to prove and proofs to believe. I hope I find you back together. But all the standards I ate, all the poems stuck to the roof of my mouth, all the mediums in between… I mean, try to tell me any of that matters Now. Now the choral swains die a delight in the hippie sun on North Ocean Avenue. All the words sound different in the same way… I live behind the stadium Now. I’m an earth receiving. I take my time and hang it on you. I try not to have expectations. But this -- I got enough time with you for us to believe any excuse. I know you wanted me to get through to myself. I lost all the good sparks I ever had, and I caught the thoughts from rising to you. (Let’s blow up the buildings that we took too fast and spilled on the bed for birds and clocks this afternoon.) I wondered what a wartime would mean to you and me… The calibur cut-outs, the debts to ferocity, why you go west when the world goes east, the changed minds, the prayers for signs that never came, and all the broken eyes… Tell me any of that matters Now. Now it’s only loss you’re losing. (The voices dropped off like language meals while we sat in the back of it all. There’s frequency growing in the garden, and I’m cutting paper with my skin.) I know it doesn’t make sense. I drive my pink Cadillac like a nail. …I told you about the whole “wild to be wrecked forever” thing, right? I hope you’ve kept it all together. Well, Erotica lasts only until you see it for yourself. You’re gonna come down with your investment. Let’s laugh at the beginning as we do in the end. Let’s lie in the beginning so we don’t at the end. Let me be the beginning, let me be your end. Let’s love at the end as we did back then. Well, I lost all my saints, So now am I good enough for us? SAY SOMETHING SAY SOMETHING. …Oh, let me War the pretty things…” I hope you’ve got yourself. Fate