Flow Chart: A Poem Read Online Free

all along, only that the show was on a kind of treadmill moving
    at the same leaden pace as your jokes and ambitions, which is why you
    never knew about it and therefore consented to come along anyway
    on this dangerous outing to the very sources of time. Don’t
    excuse yourself, nothing could.
    I’ve never really considered telling you. And now. He hated
    doing it—he wasn’t sure why. And so just as the mirthless sequel was being
    disinterred, a feeling of rage came over him, but also of relief, because
    you couldn’t do it now. They’re lost somewhere out there between the trees
    and muck, besides all cars have them now. And the colorful glasses and telephone
    are there; he came for a fitting. It was proper, and in its time. But no
    matter what you do someone will be malevolent about it, and try to stop you,
    though there is no stopping them. He came for the fitting and tried
    it on and it fit, just like that. What a laugh. Oh yes she laughed out
    of the closet I’ll be there in a minute dear. You see
    how fond of him she was, and he, well he just took it,
    like most things, change, pretzels. And she thought he was
    so good at it it kind of faked her when the last windshield whizzed
    by and it was all over as though in a rush. And as meat is sung,
    and lips only slowly parted for the alphabet of night chimes to come
    clanging down like an immense ring of keys, so with the gale-
    whipped morsel, notion of itself, that dogs us and all humans, and we never
    quite get out from under it, there is always a thread of it attached to you
    and when you remove that, another one as though magnetized takes its place.
    Begorrah it was dumb to be in the pit with him, for then the sentence…
    But who knows what all they may have tried before, what
    avenues exhausted before it was time to mend and really be the interloper,
    and for all its sparks it was never considered dangerous.
    Everybody gets such ideas on occasion, but here was the little shot-glass
    of night, all ready to drink, and you spread out in it
    even before it radiates in you. It doesn’t matter whether or not
    you like the striations, because, in the time it takes to consider them,
    they will have merged, the rich man’s house become a kettle, the wreath
    in the sink turned to something else, and still the potion holds,
    prominent. And you want to see it and to have it be talked about this way,
    not drool aimless compassion. So on that night we were almost boarded up,
    packed off to a vacation—where? Moreover no men heard of it,
    only teen-age girls and male adolescents with fruited complexions and scalps,
    who were going to make it difficult for one should an occasion arise.
    But a funny
    thing happened, none of us were around to count, all incommensurate with our
    duties as we should forever be, and not wanting much training. The dark
    was like nectar that evening, rising in the mouth; you thought you had never heard
    so pretty a sound. Then, of course, quietism was again broached
    and that soon, and quite soon the pink of the salmon ignited the whey
    of the plover’s egg and the black of old, scarred metal; then, how it
    feels relaxes one like a warm, numbing bath, and her argument, and yours,
    and all of theirs—why, why not just consider, or better yet, just
    hold, hold on to them? For the speed of light is far away,
    and you, sooner or later, must return
    to a deteriorated situation, and, placing your hand in the fire, say
    just what it means to you to be connected
    and over, and kiss the burning edges of the unfolded, stiff
    card, and be unable to avoid doing anything about it or acknowledging it
    when we have passed, when all is past.
    And why did
    he, by what was he it? Why, we push our little tales around
    and back and forth and so on
    by which time it literally implodes , I mean by then he was settling in
    and no one called his attention to it. In your repertory of groans is one
    glottal one—you’ll feel the difference. And if it can’t liberate