Democrat, Illinois - The ElectroLounge

72 !
Have I don’t this forever & what is that I then? Coffeehouses swathed by vines &
neon, every side a speeding carriage & away—
Accepting anew, this is what I do, what possible, what lost? What next? The next
word. This.
The old books like an audience, curious, rapt, critical, hopeful—this the next,
but for them alone? I don’t think so, I believe another plays his guitar likewise,
another her drawings does, some conjure, some branch, some sing, some leap, I believe there
is some kind of disparate tribe too, among the old books, & comfort for these—
When passing exhaust of days lightens awhile, such a view as this. OK. Next word. Next.
Others at it too. I miss them yet there they are, I feel them tonight, a knowing factless &
true.
The path? Back there, then. On. Else.
The map? Heat to make, up & out.
The goal? Chop wood. Eat ice cream.
The conclusion? Faceless laughter, cascading wilder.
!"#$%#&'()#$*$+,$*$-.&#$/001!
!
lxxiii.
Draw in deep from other days & feel them there, within still, feel them sparkle on
the branches up & out, thousand thousand hours & more
“nomination looks less certain than just a few days ago”
“Bring that bastard & his pack down!”
“Small victories for progressive”
“Wipe my ass with their war!”
“Preparing further strategies for coming”
“Motherfuckers feel it slipping away! I do too! Some justice maybe?”
“Further erosion of civil”
“Who’s ready when the war comes home? Are you gonna sit there in your puddle of
beer when they goosestep through the door?”
“Activists vow”
“Vow nothing! I’m full to my eyeballs! I’m ready to take ‘em all on!”
Mr. Bob leaves the verbal fray again to check on the night’s other events—Rebecca
made him promise to take off his apron & find her—
He tells the drinkers the honor system is in place. They nod respectfully. Rumor has
it Americus has a secret tabulation system for draught beer.
He’s also wondering about his young friend whom he left with several smiling young
people. Guesses Rebecca will find him at some point—she’s like that—
Pushes through the swinging door into nighttime beneath fullmoon starry skies, ahh
very nice, no walls at all, the trees are tall, the music is loud & lovely, Noisy Children’s
driving melodies augmented by a hundred drummers or more, all is good here, Mr. Bob
tucks his apron in his back pocket & leaves toil’s hours awhile, forgotten—