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LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village
Now that It's April and January Is Back in America The motion of a myth mattering more Than the myth of motion, mattering More than matter. To make matter matter ... To take the name of brain and shove it, Shove off. The ship of state, what sinks When every particle waves -- We don't have to OD on the solitude We begrudge, though the relationship The urge for comparisons has with feelings Of regret seems to last forever. Plus The popping of the balloon is the desire To abandon ship, to miss the boat by Calling one's boat the sea. Allegedly, "La Bamba" means "I am not a sailor, I am a captain, I am a captain." And then We get to the king of kings thing As we pass another burger Oh we should treat ourselves better! The stanza that never ends. So many threads to pick up. Enough Ivy climbing the walls to ignore, To invoke the draft we feel to forget. Does anybody remember to feel? Has anybody seen my love? I don't care What I care about until responsibility Seems to be a drab way of putting what Grounds me if remembering has everything To do with identity and love loses No more than it gains in the personification Like a hot windy day that can happen everyday Even without the fixed boundaries That fool us into what uncomfortably Passes for mutuality, but based in fear, Faithless fear, not without good reason And our own house dressing A selling point for what may be freer In less capital-intensive solitude Unless we get a kick admitting We love to see life as nothing but money Shots that seem to get harder to find And so we try to stand on the prophetic point Like it's the end, having got further into The light as we're accustomed, as if it's Early spring & we think we can leave More than winter behind.