Flow Chart: A Poem Read Online Free Page A

itself from us,
    just turns to dust in the air floating with the kind of negative majesty one thought
    one would not see again in one’s life. But I had the horn—we had a deal we agreed on, yet
    no record of its existence is sketched, and I am all I am
    in the meanwhile and 13,000 fucking miles away like a planter
    on his porch. And so I am unaware of the flambeaux and, possibly, the stealth
    that brought me here. And abandoned me—I—
    I’m awfully sorry, big boy, but my plans concern George and his wife over by the other side
    of the lake slipping into a nervous breakdown, and I, we, well as you know, we
    sit here determined, not like the rind
    of the melon but not liking to say anything about it into the miraculous dawn
    that—gasp—gathers us into its stocking. A pervasive air about him of studious
    lyricism avoided us, and he turned, ever so quickly, to the hen house, and off
    in the open was seen running, and then, it’s so easy, was probably not recorded
    except between the trees of a clearing. And who, what patron saint, will pick up
    the pieces of the glittering lighthouse and restore us to them in a kind
    of Roman calm, that we were meant for? And suddenly SHIT it’s the fire and
    glass breaking everywhere—it’s as though you were never born but you must somehow
    drink a toast to the small nucleus of watch-springs or confusion that
    lords it over you now but will be less than an unconsumed coal among ashes, soon,
    until the dryer’s fixed. And then all out and along the
    cinder path that led so alluringly down to the bayou, all we can know is hope
    and fevers for a coming tomorrow of saffron and moist rage under the corner
    of someone’s hat that wasn’t meant to like you. Me, I
    rest in the sun regardless. We saw a car drive on to the city that
    is the password. Ice-cubes played tag up and down my spine. I’m
    here to collect the reward. Obey my every command, no matter
    how strange it may seem, otherwise we’ll have been banished before the judgment,
    not know how fortunate we were in our old simplicity. Other vanished
    zinnias were interviewed and nobody had anything, good or bad, to say about us,
    which doesn’t cause any tears yet one wonders: what if one were back there again?
    On whom might one rely? What distractions would be concocted for us
    if we had strayed? And who is the baron that manipulates our daily lives
    from afar? Why even depend on industry and innocence when rebellion is growing
    in the ditch just outside? Who knows about us? Who ever did? Weren’t we
    lying to ourselves when we thought we caught someone being just slightly
    interested in us one day, and if so, whose fault is it? That we came
    too late to an overgrown baseball diamond? And in the meantime shacks had vanished
    without a trace from the face of the globe
    and now the evening star was combing her hair at the attic window
    and no one is to blame, just be calm, don’t
    rush, it’s all over or soon will be or just was, in any
    other language sufficient to tell it in—just like it was.
    It has long been my contention that jackals,
    unlike other denizens of the epistemic forest, are able to predict
    the future of metabolizing some kind of parasite that grows on other people’s
    children and devours them. The eyes are a profound cobalt blue, accepting
    of moral dilemmas and sprouting proverbs
    slowly, like crystals,
    but no, not innocent,
    and not lacking in character. Twenty years ago, you will recall, the eyes
    thought they made a difference, were glazed, forgetting and impudent,
    relieved of parenting. Arenas were quite happy to comply
    though a little bewildered. At first at least. One very chewy advanced proposition
    seemed to falter, then faded into the background noise, but—here’s the thing—
    continued , to this day. Bald and bleeding. I don’t like it, no one
    is obliged to, everyone may bon gré mal gré ignore it, yet it peaks
    and in so doing has its say. The manageress was adamant, but I had the