If you listen, if you find yourself listening, thus-wise, perpendicularly to the earth, you will find that not only has it all been said before, it's being said Now and more than likely will be said Tomorrow. (Run a carbon black test on my jaw and you will find….). Every human has had time to find a new creature to become, its costume. Eons. A fish or a weed or a Spaniard. The Earth has grown tired of thee. All costumes have been rented so many times (13), throughout the 13 directions of space. No one CARES anymore, you silly joker. You champion of Grit. You slick sailor in your '58 Belle Aire (my Grand Father owned one of these bitches which he had once been found driving in reverse). Gardens of sprouting flowers, all the tree tops bursting with pearls, in your infinite knowledge of Endings, you should lay down your ears and hang up your tongue and see that not only has it all been said before, its being said Now and more than likely will be said Tomorrow. Your life is a Ghost. And behind you stand a thousand more, in their line, stretching back to your first Father and your first Mother. They held beets near rivers on Wide Plains. They lifted their Stains towards the sun and thought of your thousand year old bones, though you hadn't been born yet.
Do you believe that you belong to something? Angels on harpsichords turn to smoke. You on angels turn to the coast, to the white hair of the tide of some dead sea. I wonder if you'll come back! I don't think you'll come back. Thin sun, thin faith, thinly worn as He would have you. You've sung and they have listened but has nothing changed? Is the crowd too young? Or is ours the older crowd? Think of the scene where the Megabus is waiting, taking you for a whore. Cigarette smoke streaming from your mouth in that cold October morning, it had no soul. When you showed me the vodka in your pocket I thought suddenly that maybe I should paint you a portrait of your childhood for Xmas, of you standing there near the Tree with your arms folded, with the light from some December day on your hair, I thought you'd like that, in the End, though my thoughts might be more suited for the stage. You held a beet too you know, if you think about it. The floodlights shown down upon your brow, your bust, your beet. You eventually grew a Mohawk. You shaved your head. You wore a wig. You gave in. You walked in circles for YEARS. My circles. Your circles. You were waiting for time to turn around.
You were counting on forces you could not control. Now I am nothing more than a memory (or so it seems), a picture in your head, a "Hey, remember when this or when that?" It's truthfully Wicked, and it's wonderful. This is us. This is Who We Are. I wanted to change Everything. All. But I can barely change my oil. In fact, I was checking my oil today and some dumb fuck who changed my oil last forgot to put my oil cap back on and now I don't have a fucking oil cap on my oil tank in my fucking CAR. I'm cool with that though. If I laid down all that I thought I was, spread it out in a field of wild weeds, if I saw what it was worth, if You could see, would it make ANY difference to you? If I turned around what matters most to me, would I be going anywhere more significant? Don't tell me. Really, I'm sorry that you couldn't love me back. It's true. I'm sorry that you could never care enough in these last days. It's as sad as the End of the End. But even that has its ending.
It will be a miracle if my car even fucking STARTS tomorrow morning.
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