sing song sing through

Molto allegro, allegro molto, says the joker, not joking, though, punched drunk and sing song speaking up tempo through sights high, low, and fast-sung in the hope that lost words swift-strewn and strung beneath skylines tall and deep tree rooted will blur into images long held in heart minded and tended and love heat-blinded by now, reconciling previously unseen sights in light spots of night and dark corners of day, blown fast straight through, brusque and irregular like breezes do,

brusque and irregular leaving the mark that’s never done like breezes do, endless gusty acts of love-now labor, laboring now, always now so you can see masked oh unmasked me but it’s all for them to decide and you to know and this to live in fiction unfinished and sediment selves layered in my not-so-joker persona person, too much all at once for a thing so small as memory, too full for completion or capture or polish by convention and smooth soft to touch, too soft to but rough as and foot- and season-beaten paved or cobbled streets still somehow on the edge of the brink of pieces fissured and fractured and adhered, held together by chance and design and turned to scenes for time’s material, feathered out in all directions now and instant—one-way, two-way, no two ways to see you as art alike

and so many more ways to watch you more do than be like breezes do while I suddenly stop suddenly on the foot-beaten street and understand this material:

it’s motion and joy (Clarice, Clarice) and change and the joker says, laughing and wide evil-grinned, I should watch out for losing myself in loss of reason, ’tis the season for loss of reason he says in sing song and all I hear is I’m in love now, with now, somehow and just blowing through like breezes do, feeling my visible seams seem like a dream-thought I thought I had of Basquiat ready to finish me down reduced to collaged abstraction knowing what blown through breezes do

but no idea what should should mean, only is, might, could will, did, was.

And those undone words blow through my mind like breezes do, through me through you, for, seems, you, looking ahead to what now might do to me us we and you, to you of all, of all out of and within apart of the great seething scene and summer windblown miseries, now turned joys but still part both, hope-blown through like hot breezes do over around and in concrete, steel, brick, and asphalt seas teeming and roiling to an almost but not quite boil, full to the brim and with nothing but streets between for depths and breaths and currents flowing, thinking of current you and all I hear is molto allegro, allegro molto, the joker knows no better, only pretends he do when he’s just be

and I’m immersed now in a forward now of is, breathed breaths of forever now, positively love-captured now, layered positivistic and sedimentary and mixed ditto true like breezes do, each day a street for breezes through to ditto do what they do when they blow through and I’m there with you feeling you and feeling me and knowing every little last thing that breezes do, pieced and full, haunted, possessed through and through and looking for me like I like to joke that breezes do.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.