Slick reference point in the greasy diner. Plot twists and argyle socks, unforgivable meaning in the drab part of town. Moxie must be reserved for those dangerous moments. Wisecracks make grease fires. Something called certainty gets taken back. Mysterious people with information float past with sights for sore eyes and internal questions. How many of the sawbucks in that bundle can relieve doubt? A bottle of cheap whisky on the desk proffered with a nod. Cigarettes as instruments. Everyone is malarkey’s best pal. A quick sock to the mush fulfills Diogenes’ intent. We have prose now that is the dead person’s present. No one slips from suddenly. Meanwhile, a shot in the dark: obsequious Justice worth a few smackers. Another ounce of brown liquid, a puff of wreaking smoke to the lungs, tip back the Stetson and feet on the desk: it’s a job.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
Comments
a certain Comedy I can't pin down, or explain, or understand where it comes from.
Thank you. Bob Brue