Cry, Cry don't cry for me

Out in the dull dark whispers of foglet unfurl and I heed the illuminated median, like I mind all medians. like I am glued to the center, the very center that will not hold, it's like looking for a fragment of music in the recesses of yesterday. If you find it, will it hold, or will what you thought was unsurpassingly beautiful,will it stand, or will you watch it dissapate into the ether, recede into the fog, one of a hundred thousand lost melodies, or will it collide like Hong Kong fireworks and splash across your face like hot oil from a skillet, and it will have the same power that it had before, will it have more power, or will it have no power at all, will you lay your head down and will your breath be short. Will you choke on a note, will you cling to the median, will you bite your tongue, will you pay the toll, will you yield to the symphony of brake lights and tail lights, and know that the very piece of music you are listening to belongs to a war sixty years dead, when on the sabath, they threw rocks and molotov cocktails through the windows of temples across Germany, so Gorecki wrote a suite for his wife on that night for Crystal nacht, something beautiful, something that is ageless, something that outlived that night and will surely outlive it's history and me with it. And will you heed the relevance, or will you be dazzled by the brilliance of September.

But before all of this, all of this maudlin median hugging B, D and I are looking for Mars to the east and smoking a bowl (bole?), laconic in deck chairs, late Marin heat settling on the flag stones, dogs skirting the illuminated pool like black bottomed poison. Chicken on the stove, wine in the glass, two darlings and the sun waning in the hemisphere, and the slightest and alluring trace of fall on the horizon. Too close, too soon, shouldn't it be june still. Shouldn't it?

I had one of those some kind of wonderful dreams again the other night, the kind where I spend an evening in dreamland gazing upon myself making out, and making out and making out, replete with golden halo on the feather soft lawn, under a turquoise sky... right, and just like in the movies he reached out to carress my face, such is the fodder of dreams, when you roll over late on saturday morning to savor seventeen more minutes of dreamland, but on sunday morning the sun will break into the windows at nine something and I will shirk the sunlight and shield my burgeoning hang over (I have little doubt of that) And I will come to conciousness naked between the sheets and I might wake to holding my own hand, and since my subconscious has nothing but kissing on it's agenda while the rest of me is silently sort of coming apart, I've been rising from my kissing dreams with my lips plumped and hot as if, as if tongue and friction had been my nightly ablutions. My poor abused teddy bear, my synthetic lover, my knight in plush nylon armor, the one these past two years of absence I curl around the void. My synthetic solace. My malleable and discardable bear.

And it's one thing to be lashed to the sex demon, because one's battery opperated boyfriend provides a consistant simulacra, ah but the kissing demon is something else altogether, it's like a hunger that cant be fed and a thirst that cant be slaked. It's when you are running all over town with your mouth half open waiting to collide with another mouth you might as well be hunting butterflys. There is nothing to appease the make out demon, you can't do it on your own as sadly adept as I am at giving myself as orgasm making out with the crook of my arm simply doesn't cut any mustard, mayonaise or any other condiment. I don't care to practice on the warm and dry crook of my arm, I am too old and too experienced, and this hungry mouth of mine, this frank desire will have have to fly by the seat of hre drawers and pray for a soft landing.