We walked out into the cold night
Contrails crossed the sky, the stars shone bright;
All above was a deep black blue,
Not a car passed on the avenue.
Under a streetlamp I began to write
Letting my thoughts wander into the night
In the cold a voice was calling my name
And I followed its sough back to Orange Peel Lane.
Crushed by a drop of success
Everything is going fine
I am happy in excess
I do mine
Is this how advance feels
Happiness for oneself alone
Shared only to give the appearance of sharing
Still trapped and dark
Each alone to do their work
For the betterment of the world
And nothing turning out how it ought to
My mistakes are most me, my successes dust
Look at this and cry
You are floundering once more
The base has gone out beneath you,
You’re spiraling
Nothing complete, stuck inside
No time for a wife
No time for friends
Waste of youth
Expressing yourself
Scribbling clever bullshit
Each and every
Each and every day
Listen to the wind through the trees outside
Don’t you think this is a ruined world
It doesn’t snow
No one says anything
And I keep my mouth shut
To work on my career
Sand in the desert
I am a ruin of a world
Nothing will change it
And nothing is good
It is the backdrop as they are fond of saying
And I guess I really am here alone
Cheers I’ll never see you
Build
Die
Let it all go again
All this time trying to say we live in a world
Take yourself as a model
But you are hard on yourself
And that’s unreliable
The eyes blue and upthrust into the glare of the camera and the lips joined in a simper. The butterfly of his tie perched below the collars, fluttering towards the part in his hair. The dark jacket flowing into the dark trousers, illumined on each upper leg; and the hands aglow: the right curled on his knee and the fingers of the left clenching his cap, the bill to the ground, in between his spread legs and the creases of shine on each leather shoe. To return to the eyes, pressed shining, glassy and gay with threads of joy and determination entwined.
Schizophyllum commune
Found: On a log of oak, fused in shelves
Fruiting Body: 1.5cm, snow, fuzzy, small, gray at the margin (inrolled); flesh thin but very tough
Gills: white, protracted, well spaced, streaming to the tiny knob of the base
Taste: none, but chewy
-crush between your fingers
-stroke the parahairy cap
-wet then stroke the cap
Stereum striatum
Found: whirling around a branch
Fruiting body: 3cm; fan-shaped, spatula-shaped, heartshaped; creamy silky bands pushing in zones to hard copper-gold bands; flesh exquisitely thin and tough, margin gold
Underbody: creamy-buff, hard, soft, somewhat zoned
-Marvelous!
Hell is inescapable bliss today: I watered the ox, I fell around, clutching three instants of grappa. Oh what will it do, I’d spill the wine over the flesh of a white goat for you.
Sometimes I think I am gay when I see rainbows, burls, or the Maker piling hay. Each sharp grain pushes through the world a thousand times.
The vandals are coming with their axe, to flay me at the corner of Larkspur and Mark. To drag me through the streets, to the park, where they’ve stretched out their big rollers.
Purgatory, heaven-redeeming bliss. I will walk on hot coals through the mist. The bees and brambles sting the earth is freezing cold. I’ll walk through the ocean, though it stings my soul.
Upon the way is a Pool of Time. In it I see my name, floating on a lily pad. Open the hours, open your heart, I fell into the water with a start.
To the gates, all inset with rubies. Emeralds and lovelocks. Plus mirrors that refract you from every angle, style, and phase. I am with a hundred arms in an ormolu haze.
The ox leads the way through the cloudbanks to the God of All. Lounging on a couch made out of curious metal. Picking his fingers with a harp, stroking the calico cat with the warp. On the ropes of time an ocean lays, plucking
The Ammonite 