You swallow a bottle of sleeping pills but they don’t work. You take him home, and you make him a cheese sandwich, and you try to get his shoes off, but he kicks you and he keeps kicking you. And then a third, a fourth, a fifth.Ī man walks into a bar and says: Take my wife–please. You hear the first boot hit the floor and you’re looking up, you’re waiting because you thought it would follow, you thought there would be some logic, perhaps, something to pull it all together but here we are in the weeds again, here we are in the bowels of the thing: your world doesn’t make sense. And you can hear the man in the apartment above you taking off his shoes. You’re on your back in your undershirt, a broken man on an ugly bedspread, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. You take her out into the rain and you fall in love with her and she leaves you and you’re desolate.
The paint dries eventually.Hey guys, I'd like to know your interpretation of this poem.Ī man walks into a bar and says: Take my wife–please. Can we love nature for what it really is: predatory? We do not walk through a passive landscape.
It wants our bodies, the landscape does, and everyone runs the risk of being swallowed up.
The mind fights the body and the body fights the land. Paint all the men you want but sooner or later they go to ground and rot. All thoughts finish themselves eventually. Something dead that doesn't know it's dead. What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. We deduce backwards into first causes-stone in the pond of things, splash splash-or we throw ourselves into the future. The life of the mind is a disappointment, but remember what stands for what. O little birds, you flap around and make a mess of the milk-blue sky-all these ghosts come streaming down and sometimes I wish I had something else. It helps to have an anchor but your head is going somewhere anyway. It's a matter of willpower. The view from above- untethered scrutiny. I cut off my head and threw it in the sky.
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