North Facing

Distracting no difference to mean in the shade or deliver cold shadows through heavens abiding no distance from Babylon, tried and be true, like the canvas I notice is yellow and blue, and the worm in the soil can’t think thoughts I am sure, but you are no different and I’d tell you if you were, drawing your pictures aloud for a crowd and past my disturbance– I’m salient and proud, and like a pear tree to springtime, I’m blooming through sunshine and rain side by side like an old honest Abraham shifting no lies on a calendar open and scribbled upon– it is wrinkled and worn and I can’t look anymore at the days all crossed off and the days all forthcoming, my head is unstapled and my neck is alarmingly high as a hat tree that’s coats all hung down and reaching the floor like an old dressing gown caught by whittled maneuvers, asleep on the lawn, as you shiver me timbers and cackle and yawn while I’m telling you stories that you wanted to hear, but your ears aren’t open and the weeks turn to years as we sit ’round the fire and I spin every yarn that is tilted and teething, and fussing about like a foghorn to mist, I am yelling and shouting that you are an infant, and I am your son, and for awhile I was juggling, but now I’m all done with the writing from memory, my heart beats too fast, and my breathing is weak from inhaling burnt gasoline, from years I was driving an old rusted boat down a river I dug myself, and refused to call a moat because it separates nothing but the east and the west and I’d laugh if my castle’d build, ’cause I am at best a figure of speech or a candle wick burning– I am tough, I am dirty, but I am strong and not sorry for what I once did when I was less than a kid, I was a broken down heap of iron melting down then to a molten mess, shaping myself up again until morning delivered my east once again, across rivers, through mountains, and I stop writing and

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