I wake up naked every morning and spit nails at a picture of Robert Bly
I was born in a railway station; I don't give a shit anymore
I have ironic blood. The picture is blurred unless you can cut your eyes
the right way and see the ten thousand things
which are one thing. Until you can look at shit and see shit
the passages of animals are inauspicious. You step in it
and walk around tracking it everywhere.
traveling through space at 96,000 miles an hour
and kicking down some bald alley sweating
because the far-off sun and the nearby building
are best represented by some guy crawling off the sidewalk
by the slippage of vast waters
by the mechanical clank
by the motivations of the lover in the solid moon
by the bitter ash
by the outer shell
I wake up tired and outraged hearing the firepower of a television war
coming at me pinpoint shooting through drunken ethers and
standardized channels; the tired old politics of the dollar
being played out like watching a sick dog shit green
like watching a drunk lurch in front of a cablecar
like sinking into one's own droppings
out of apathy and cynicism
while god gets liquored up and lashes to the spar
before disappearing into some cannonball mist
like Napoleon marching on Europe only smaller
in the dangerous hour just before light
I wake up in the wrong bed wearing the wrong things
the war comes through static on the radio
a dead man lying on a burning machine, a piece of flying glass.
I was born in a railway station; I don't give a shit anymore
I have ironic blood. The picture is blurred unless you can cut your eyes
the right way and see the ten thousand things
which are one thing. Until you can look at shit and see shit
the passages of animals are inauspicious. You step in it
and walk around tracking it everywhere.
traveling through space at 96,000 miles an hour
and kicking down some bald alley sweating
because the far-off sun and the nearby building
are best represented by some guy crawling off the sidewalk
by the slippage of vast waters
by the mechanical clank
by the motivations of the lover in the solid moon
by the bitter ash
by the outer shell
I wake up tired and outraged hearing the firepower of a television war
coming at me pinpoint shooting through drunken ethers and
standardized channels; the tired old politics of the dollar
being played out like watching a sick dog shit green
like watching a drunk lurch in front of a cablecar
like sinking into one's own droppings
out of apathy and cynicism
while god gets liquored up and lashes to the spar
before disappearing into some cannonball mist
like Napoleon marching on Europe only smaller
in the dangerous hour just before light
I wake up in the wrong bed wearing the wrong things
the war comes through static on the radio
a dead man lying on a burning machine, a piece of flying glass.
It is expensive down here in Los Angeles, but the area I photographed is strangely undervalued. Still expensive, but probably not that much more expensive than something decent in the ghetto.
And that's why I am going to work again today. Must work, work, work ... worship that almighty dollar!