spinning the ribbon….

o.k. now, he said, Falcon, I want you to pack off, you’ve been
eating at me long enough, much too long, I know you used to
know William Faulkner and not everybody can say that, and I
know you have to use a bed pan and that you’re wired for
sound–but Falcon, I’ve got my own problems too:   the other day
I was on the freeway and my left front wheel came off–shit
like this happens to all of us and I like to lend support but
more and more vertigo of the action hampers my reason-
put my shorts on backwards the other morning and
                                                     the other evening
the Queen of the Seawolves knocked on my door asking for a
part of my soul, and Falcon, you know
a man can only give so much and then it’s gone, Falcon,
reached and reached and they always want more
all I want to do is lay back
                                              listen to the band
                                              music and
eat orange
you know, Falcon, this is a terrible poem
very terrible poem (stupid
I am playing with words like   a man trying to tune a bad
            but the strange thing is that even when I write
            it’s better than most–
                                            Jesus Christ,
the light bulb just went out
Falcon, go away
find Faulkner
find Falstaff
have been dented and dented so much that I just smile
through the fire, Falcon,
            Falcon                    Falcon
the sound of this machine is all that I have even when
it doesn’t say anything

the towel hangs in the bathroom
and better that,
            Falcon, than

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