Some Changes Regarding Dexterity (the Apostrophe)

Stop with the nervous precious maneuvering. 
No one's buying into your amateur ballerina salesmanship. 
Lot of stale juice and flaccid anatomy , sailor-jaws sailor-mandibles 
 with a thousand too many teeth, reflexively spitting into their hunger. 

You ought to make some changes, if this is the case. You don't 
have to. You can sit in the premature darkness like some 
cotton snail sewing laziness into your pity 
with vagrant chatter of tomorrow going... 

Speaking for myself, I'm weighing out how some of my heroes 

dissolved the contracts of their prohibitive creative rules 

for the better. (If your mind went towards violence, pedophilia or 

compulsive lying and the absolute dullest forms of circumlocution, 

stop reading now. I dare you to talk to a woman, 

a real, live woman, whose happened to have had an abortion. 

Go for it.) 

Well, whether he meant to or not, Cormac McCarthy put his 

hand into magical realism there in the years during The Road, 

and, The Passenger. How did that plane get down there? Morning 

in the Gulf of Mexico with Spanish dreams whistling through the 

rustling algae. I'm not saying it was aliens or time-travelers or some 

turncoat from The Children of Ida Mancini -- however -- the circular/ 

plus-one nature of a Romeo & Juliet except it's after World War 

Two, where neither of the attached parties is willing to live without the other 

yet his coma informs her suicide, and parents beholden to a government 

at the expense of their children are no good parents at all. 

So where did the plane come from? I'll give you a moment 

to hold your hands... 

No. I don't think Earth was built by a different species. 

If I wrote the Old Testament now I'd start off 

with some knife-wielding lines about the helium and the 

small fire angles that rise and that bend, conform to their 

elusive growing past without legitimate children towards 

our crazy inferno, towards the thalamic structures of our geography 

and how dark, blank energy encouraged and suffered the quiet rain of 

the night's fiery debris. I'd write it so people saw how this all began 

in tiny stubborn germs that aspired to be something like frogs, iridescent 

octopi, like dolphins who could school us all away from suicide if 
we listened.... 

And if I wrote a Book of Revelations it'd include 

America in the 1960s 1970s when the tattoo black brick buildings 

built 

by carpenters & engineers & production managers wearing, nee, sporting 

uniforms and suits stitched by the hands of the oppressed and exploited, 

I'd write with some wise mixed-black say Jamaican Nigerian with the 

vocabulary of a monk-prince and the limb-dexterity of a three-hundred 

pound graceful dancer in a body weighing over a hundred pounds less 

found their way into a library, some towering castle-strong job, the kind 

of deal your racism and apophenia and flaccid hierarchies don't 

stand a chance to bring a solitary creek from. 

But I don't want to be all day about it. 

There's the sun. 

Brush your teeth. 

****