I'm going to read a happy poem now.
The revolution will not be televised
yet she turns from the horizon and is waving hello.
What rises first in the wilderness internal to love,
coming upon a cop vehicle on fire.
The question is where to linger.
When to return my eyes.
In light of the most beautiful horizon, sleeping with heat
by your side, position everything always the same way.
The glock, the cock, the pillow spray in well-spaced formation,
always the same order.
The key is to continue with clarity.
I stay ready so I don't never got to get ready,
an old friend would say.
But he was talking about film, visual aesthetics.
Here, the bewildered underlying.
Every light on but all the rooms.
I don't never keep.
I don't never quickly.
I say what is it that arrives in you.
Progressive muscle relaxation then I just.
Another worn penny for the sex that doesn't come.
Another mountainside of desert poppies.
Scorched slope of the future that won't return and is
indiscernible from the center of my hand.
When I get out of bed the air conditioner still isn't working.
And Mingus on vinyl and I demonstrating how to best
scramble soft eggs.