My aborted attempt at a modern Finnegan's Wake.
Instead it's an updated version of paragraph poetry.
Aggradations got me aggravated. Aggradations got me in a jones for something that’s not even worth wanting. But a lonely street corner is only lonely when the sign on the other side says walk instead of don’t walk and all those peeps zipping by like a bird in flight but don’t fly high enough for the sleepwalking, jumble-word-talking, asinine acidic qualities that we flaunt in settings designed for heavy petting with the eyes pointed towards the skies that appear as reflections in a lake or from the vantage point of the lonely street corner, in a puddle that is muddled with gas and garbage that even a bum who hasn’t eaten since he left his home wouldn’t look at.
And I say goddamn. I say it like a man stuck inside his plan would spray bullets but not the hollow pointed pointers described in dog journals for the walking funerals in their infinitesimal aggravations.
And I say goddamn. I’m a walking funeral that I describe on the fly in a way makes me less than a man but not more than what I cann or cannot be from where you look you cannot see for the sea because it clouds your visions even on sunny days when the overcast doesn’t gloom over fishermen casting nets or baited hooks to catch whatever sniffs by for a look.
And I say goddamn. I’ve been looking for that hook that was baited with me in mind because I’m the one that the larger fisherman wants on his line and even if I stick to the shallows I lay in wait for the gallows but a crass pizzazz parade got me jonesing for a way to silence the form of aids that = death to someone who just wanted help or even passing the buck from a slow-moving truck/train weighed down with clowns and tomatoes for sale at your local gas station as the patient patients wait for cadences announcing a new miracle cure that comes in the form of a pill that you take once a day so line up in the chain but if your gay go to the back because that fat man in the choke collar tie says so, so go, go, go.
And I say goddamn. Because I don’t have the disease but they tell me to take the medicine anyway and they say it so nice and punctuate with a please as if preventative medicinal stocks are going down and I need to buy them so the prices can make fat men fatter and pay for their new chockfull of tie tie-racks and I praise the new pirates not of/on Gilead but the opposite where Eldorado seems a mirage that comes in the form of a three story garage meant not for cars but planes that land in the water and sometimes on land so your local governmental figures can park where three dollar martinis are so foreign that the foreignism is not questioned.
But it is merely poured, slowly first then rapidiousity follows ‘til the shollows or the Shilohs, are encapitulated and snared into deeper areas where meaning lurks in the depths and dirks. forlorn. oh goldsmith. forlorn.