pages of white, late nite tv snow

 one could be excused in their twenties but forties? in excu

sable, in escapable. what is art but a view point of time in space

like a red bic un use able, one walks into the house to retrieve

the blue one from the other jacket. retreats again when cold bites

harder than nicotine. by their sixties it's all just history anyway

preservation mumification. i've been listening to rap alot

something about the way my car and the lights to and from 

the daycare center sync up to deliver me a green experience

from sheldon to anderson. that's 8 traffic lights. i may

be wrong, if you're counting. groove of base

like an ace up an ally, matching flow wtih the diodes

turnin waves into power, making snow

 hour after hour up here on the mic

the words are spinnin thru me like tippytytap 

and it doesn;t really matter if you call it old hat

ol gang ol white girl you ain't all dat

 it's the flow of tampa traffic,it typa gippity gatt

gat gat phat gat gat ga aat gat. 2x

%%%

there is rumbling next door

 the moon is rising again

gibbous, dropping tides of beds

 thrown against  trailer walls.

i would sit here chronically listening

in order to avoid the child i'm fostering

but he's bbeen given his vitamin s 

time must be attended to.

&&&

 we don't have tv snow anymore

to lament is nostalgaic time wasting

to expect relevance is ironic and sad

to expect to remember if there is a word 

for ironically sad is the down slope of algernon's mind

the remembering that you used to know

without thinking about it at all

i never understood the layers of metaphor

the couching of dementia in the folds of the book

only now after years of lead poisoning and other abuses

+ twelve years of pain have rendered me stupid.

alas, the perils of living and wishing wells. 

'[

(((((*

that ws a lot of silence.

so any way good  n9te