Danse Novembre

I apologize for the nature of my gender and its inherent offenses.

For example, right now as you are speaking, my eyes capture your mouth
most closely. I am simply inadequate to uphold any standards of decency or
politeness.

On a good day, there are buffalo on an immense prairie of which I am a part, concurrently
a man standing and watching things pass, listening to the flow of moving water.

I want to trample and shit on all things corporate (APPLAUSE).

I wonder if the footsteps of a herd are a raindance of sorts; if fear of god is a
survival strategy, if the earth will overheat, flood, and scourge this influenza
from its body, if there is sex after death?

I am an ape up on a cross. I break people apart. Once on my plate I gingerly separate. Sawing limbs and bones, making pieces littler, until a horde of commonalities move in the firey dance of neurons.

And as your lip curls up I can't help but think about how it feels on the inside.

I'm on my knees when falling is an unfashionable exercise. I can smell the rotten meat in your teeth. But really, I'm standing here alone -feet wet.

Elaboration on several moments

Hash house on 95. Think pancakes and yellow counters in poorer counties
but no churches. Turn off the ignition and look at man with white pants,
puffy face and a narcoleptic's smile. He gets the joke, it's bubbling up out
of the sink with little black hairs, shredded floss and bits of gunky food like
Soulja Boy's latest single.

If every clear sunday you stood directly beneath the sun and waited for
moisture to form on your forehead, how long would it take to feel like you
were wasting time? Essentially, no less significant than any activity, simply
an exercise of existence.