|Artist Rendition of Ron and Me|
My feet are raw big rafts of extravagant ice. And I can't move. Can't move even sluggishly. Could I die, I think, vaguely, ???
And then Ron's gone and when he returns he tells me he was with someone else. Tells me it was like it was no big deal. Tells me like he's doing the laundry. Like he's folding up a pair of old socks.
"now, that's some bird," Ron caws out again, as the jars dance around us with their shadowy cargo. "I only touched his leg once or twice," he tells me, and I'm thinking this guy is a crow. I want to skewer this crow: And leave this crow skewered out by mailbox as a warning like "don't fuck with my Ron."
There was a train, I remember. (And maybe I can move now? No. No.) It crawled up into lives and skies so beautifully. We sewed through the hills. It was like making a magic dress. A dress to get married in and cavort all night long in an ancient and sophisticated dance.
This feels like a fishing trip. Like one big wave. And then another.
KEEP OFF THE LAWN!!! and KEEP ALL YOUR GOD DAMNED FEATHERS!!!
The jars of formaldehyde are flashing colors as they revolve around us more and more slowly. I feel like its X-Mas. I feel like I am Jesus Christ.
KEEP OFF THE LAWN!!! ...... KEEP OFF THE LAWN!!!
And I feel as though I am rising up in a kind of wave of Neruda.
And Ron is flying with me. Yeah, Ron is my right hand man. And he is grinning. And he is touching me. Rubbing himself—beaks and claws and feathers and cawing— all over me.
And I can hear trumpets, dark and oily, like we're entering Eden for the first and last god damned time.