In my inner stitching it makes sense in bunches, and then... nothing. How can I tell time without a woman? April May June. Some cheap mic Howlin' Wolf bombast knockoff plays on the stereo-- used to be a stereo. One speaker is dead but the left one still kicks, and cheap mic Tom thunders on... "I gave everything I had for twenty pounds of thud". Like everything I should have written by now. I could have been a cheap mic mad howl by now, but few are chosen . . . the great Paradox needs no one and every one at the same instant, we just never agreed on the instant.
Did we play music that went on forever-- glorious, devastating medicine like the Military Channel? The mounting noise, the great reality film screeching, nothing and everything to do with Zen hoodlum poets and their sketchy antidotes, or Hemingway drinkin' red rum from a gasoline jug on the beach, watching the red mushroom sky, all too complicated. No! I need a woman, simple as a horizon blaze, and time's short. La cosa nostra, the gang of accelerating time. See, I'm stuck in this looping parody, in this post-post-ocean, and my woman is a dot on the shore. I'll need all of my Zen tricks just to wave at her.
I need a woman to solve the paradox, who is the paradox . . . And a better sense of time, yeah time too. If a tree fell in the timeless, did it happen? Back in Muskogee Uncle Jim taught me how to drink and be real proud, but that was before cheap mic Howl and my girl on the rusty shore. Now I wander back to the shed and drink paradox straight from the still. I want my funk uncut. Paradox stills stilted logic, so why argue? I need a woman to be my memory, to steal mine, to be the other voice, but . . . there is no crisis I tell you! Or maybe Crisis is my woman, right under my nose the whole time, my fair Lady Crisis. And all the cheap mic bombastic noise rattling my skull, the kids and their rock and roll and all their pointy missiles, mad as hell, and they'll keep on taking it. Ah, but it's a lovely spring-fresh burnt autumn morning.
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