Sunday, April 30, 2017

Saturdays Are For Bathing Betsy

I am thinking about Betsy almost all the time now.
I am also thinking about the relationship between
a man and his watch. I am amazed at how each sort
of animal and plant manages to keep its kind alive.
Shocking poultry. Maybe there's a movie playing
downtown about a dotty fat woman with a long knife
who dismembers innocent ducks and chickens. But it
is the reconstruction of the villa of the mysteries
that is killing me. How each sort of animal and
plant prevents itself from returning to dust
just a little while longer while I transfer some
assets to a region where there are no thinking creatures,
just worshipping ones. They oscillate along like magicians,
deranged seaweed fellows and their gals, a Nile landscape
littered with Pygmies. I'm lolling on the banks.
I am not just a bunch of white stuff inside my skull.
No, there is this villa, and in the villa there is
a bathing pool, and on Saturdays Betsy always visits.
I am not the first rational man, but my tongue
does resemble a transmitter. And, when wet, she
is a triangle. And when she's wet, time has a fluff-
iness about it, and that has me trotting about,
loathing any locomotion not yoked to her own.


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