Ultramodern

oh most avant! compensation! standing
shore side
oh how lovely! we are breathing now. we
are
prodding with
elongated twigs the grackles
towards FLIGHT and they are screaming most
guardedly. lovely.

this is
talking.
this is
the space
between
talking.
this is
not talking
not
one
word
at all.

on the rainy starry windy streets the young man in the top hat was smacking visitors in their
respective
psyches with the breaking
news of Eros standing there in loneliness by the Great Father Ocean
and drowning
their own arrows
by the rainy-starry-windy streets
and the corners as dry as a paper cup. how so! how so-

we
are standing
women in
bright gowns
in knit sweaters
waiting! we are waiting
for the men
the large men
in broad colors
we are waiting for them
to sing
highly of the flown BIRDS. they are SINGING
now
and

now it is brightly wooden against the eye. sticking. sticking (too much philosophy too many ruminations on the tangibility of lust). the ocean

is lust.
it is not love
because
there is too much of
it.

and suddenly THINGS are beautiful. Oh!