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Saturday, July 11, 2009

Hobo Rant




Text:

Hobo Rant

fever dreams sleep need
the dynamite reverie of hands moving to no sound
calloused palms flaking skin off every off beat
finger conductor to no music and
all seem to see is his silence, but something
being heard in the quiet — moan-hum
seizure melody — make ears gotta seal themselves
no noise is too much sound

(nothing left just broken things inside shaking 'round
cuts like glass, like cracked bullets blown from guns
fired off his brain firing off
awareness: too many thoughts thinking but
he'll save the sense from sensing this) up waking in sudden city crowd

he mimed over blackface — bright red lips, blue eyes
high noon ray-burn the heat making they crazy
no sweats dripping pores locked up like prison cells
tongues lolled in the hot and turned
to hour hands dropping clock alarms that call out of nowhere
(now here time constantly came punctual
good mannered guest)

they're so moving it's impossible
to catch up with what ran ahead, just lie there
shade plays cool blankets tummy tucked 'round but
gutter smells and the smog... can't see the sky only
fluorescent lights with moths' dirt wings
flicking dust in his nose

he had too much and gave it away but
nothing came back nothing ever comes back
(being lost is too much fun for things to go and be found again)
the misplaced, misgiven pieces make change him
potato head doll replaced with something funnier
should have parts been born interchangeable
accessories to design identity for: success!

always has a hand out just in case someone has one out too, maybe
they'll touch randomly
beautiful entropy
be song's laughter dancing another
travelling troubadour playing

there's no anything held out, only never said
not a smile just teeth and strained eyes, sometimes mouths but
he's scared to get near their lips speaking the strange
we can't comingle, new phrase lingo pinged for
one-liners at parties of cocktails and cockteasing
(suspected intentions — he doesn't get angry anymore
he just gets better)

mary jane smells sour in a sun-sweat humidity. all these people
(not bearded bare-chested unwashed falling up in their heads
never dropped acid or horse or white powder snuff)
breath that scent to make grinny-grin goodbye

would say wait, say, wait
but can't communicate right now he's immolating
popsicle licks, churro sticks tossed
and a vendor butter plate sizzle fuzz

something said in the head out loud
why'd everybody stop?

***Author's Note: text does not appear as written. Use only as guide for listening.***

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