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A Green Thousand

by Boston Cream Party

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1.
To My Friend 04:35
To my dear friend, who also cannot stop reordering the flat houses, pulling shutters down for cutting boards, imposing warfare on small plants that have stopped growing, counting hours as losses to the infinite, who burns love like the first iron smelt, picks and chooses days and could imagine himself enraged at the top of the world. Keep living, and we will reorder the same city to ourselves, or atleast ourselves to the same city again.
2.
Harpstar 03:36
West of Orion's eye lies his starcluster embouchure, half slack from stroke, disease, you can count on it, silver rainbow hums off coiled brass. The skronk nephews wrote seven letter "songs" two too many to reveal much more than black currant jam underfoot. Inspired to found a new circus with the whistles uncoiled from Rashaan's beard. I came up on deck, breathing above apple barrels, scattering muscular throated mice, they ran old circus from every tent post, brush machinists, untenable alto shardsmen. Harp cables sit slack in sympathy, arrayed black against the ebony broadsky. My hands have not grown large enough to pitch them in sympathy with my mind.
3.
Priest black, a sleeve of shoulders up to the night, like a little screw, eye wanders left to right, right up and black over, green as wide as any limbs, new shoes, a baptism. New hat with a brim fierce as an eclipse. You could count all of your bones under such a dress. Mary sitting stiff as uncarved wood, holding the body of her son, Jesus. Heaven is afoot, dangling angles. Scraps of angles, up to three children at once, and angles cannot blunt the gravity of one fall.
4.
Why don't you float me a painting of yours? I'll sell you a billful of drinks. Why don't you float me a mound of artifacts? I'll sell you a Turkish sink. Why don't you float me a sense of life? I'll float you two months of winter. Why don't you float me a week to get well? I'll float you eight days to get sicker. Why don't you float me a dream in South Philly? I'll sell you two shots from the tower. Why don't you float me a booth in the market? I'll sell you a field of wildflowers.
5.
My ancestors are wide rock walls. Nuwa water - the god of death, often a bald man, sometimes a candle. The banjo is no woman. The god of death paints the new caverock walls to knuckles and ankles in white, dressed like the first bather, the singer of monuments handled hands and desert red flowers in prayer. Gobi anasazi, did I grant permission to hold me? Smiling when she did, face like a bare sunflower.
6.
When Dr. Daniel pulls his blade, don't count on nothing to be save. I wouldn't count of my own fingers to stay attached to my own hands. If it bounces at your feet, don't pick it up, it's not good to eat. Just leave it lying there and walk straight on home. If Michael draws his blade, he'll send old Hob back where he came writhing like a snake, ground the dragon in a cave. In England he goes by George but he's still a wall against the dragon's scourge. Swing his blade with all his might, sword gripped with both his hands.
7.
Pretty city girls scoff, but every old crossroads needs sweeping. So I sweep my front porch while they are sleeping. Passing green on one side, for the candied businessclass men, were children biting lips, in mirrored train window reflection. Passing green on one side, rolling green on the other, children and businessmen trade seats, don't acknowledge one another. Oh, shit!
8.
In States 03:53
In West Virginia, they ain't got no kings. Their daughters of winter are the mothers of spring. If you told me, dear, that I was born in Nitro, I'd have to admit that it wasn't so. For I was born unto kings. West Virginia, you know, they ain't got no spring. In Maine, the open spaces are all fairy moss. That's just where I've counted my favorite loss. Nobody's working at all up there. They're all just helping around, they've all got enough to share. I'm the king's only heir. In Maine, you know, nobody's working up there. In Alaska, all they've got is husky men. They'll do just about any old thing for a few more women. All they've got up there is a bunch of snow, so I'll call me up 158 women from the Opera show. There's always gonna be a bit more snow, so I'll call me up a few more them girls from the Opera show. Every time I'm in North Jersey, I swear I'm gonna die. Those crazies take their New York money and build castles in the sky. Although the drive from Newark to New York and back is short, I swear I'll be struck down by a speeding German import. I know my life is getting short, and I don't want to loose what I've got to a speeding German import.
9.
In the painter's head, just as wit was about to go dead, he found an oil lamp, and a desert canvas, hardly damp. He touched zinc white to angles' wings, filling space with pearls, living. Here redolent truffles grow. There none show. The Atlantic cries, its back is barren to our eyes.
10.
Sitting forward in my salon, always with and in good company. Mazurka settled in as a warm bath, a warm night visits in spite of the season, we tabled green, brown raisin, cassis and French red. Only butter always with and in good substance remained appropriate to the occasion.
11.
Having sought freedom amongst the nodding grain, Having sought freedom across the dustdrift plain, I found myself without a place to stay. Having sought freedom in small town apple pie, Having sought freedom in cities that scrape the sky, I find myself without a name that's mine. Having sought freedom between the oceans grey, Having sought freedom in how to think and pray, I find myself with a thing to say. I'm grappling with the no identity blues.
12.
Yusef's changes are sixteenth notes and flat saxes, printed on black rayon jazz, referential, nonflammable, like a barback standing on an encyclopedia pointing to canonical bottles, reverential like ziplipped freebird. Stomp up on the coffee table, 2071, 1804, 1811, 2042, staring up Sesame Street where Tony's nieces have opened a record store.
13.
Pull the shirt down in the reeling, reeling. Pull the shirt down, take the kneeling home. Meadow break down, hold the burrow, burrow. Meadow hold still and the hill back bows. White tail lurching down the country backroad. White tail wicked up as the sun sits low. High stepping cross the bridge again. Force the nails back in, keep your fears in tow. I'm coughing up shards of my broken power. I don't want to bring my children to a loveless world. My wife is a promise, she is patient like the past. In my woman, I see my young body aging fast. If she asks, I love her, but I've found my front yard. We are bears brother, peeling roofs in the dark.
14.
Moss sofa removed to the front to rust, rusted cassettes, moved and found a green thousand for the first time. Excalibur painted fence post, painted white, slitting New Zealand, Spain splitting oak and escritoire, alternating legs to make it past virginity then drown, past college, then drown. Who the hell didn't teach these girls to swim?
15.
Alone down and free on my back with a cat that doesn't speak like he should. A brown month drought is upon us. I'm waiting by the neighborhood's last reserve. Alewife and rock in the bay we would have caught, but sunnys are all the pond could preserve. If catfish were around a scaling knife I would have found, and not a fat cat all dead in the sun. This town is a deli. I don't know why I came. I'll leave before it kills me. Those fuckers all sound the same. Don't take me to see my new home before I've arrived. Like the future devoured by the past, the highway's devoured by the grass. I wouldn't know from everything what to take and what to leave behind. Imagine Myself, after I moved to New Jersey to be fishing on my back with a cat instead of a scaling knife not for catfish, or I would need a longer knife, sharper cat or to fish dynamic off my back, bristling like a backed up tomcat to slit my fingers into its mudlove seal muscle side, hanged from its own gills, its own back to break and my fingers to swallow beneath whiskers.
16.
Dampened coal spittle dumb down half my face. Work hard, I don't give a shit for praise. A union will give you say in kick around your loss. I'd rather be born a demon than be the boss. You're not crippled, they told me, we can use you. Standard vagrant, no job refused. Boys count splits, pass in file, like a comb passes through, marks parts on the left. Doing work with no tools, the last work I withstood was to bloodmoney, underfed fools. I walked swiftly, like grey on a mouse, upright and still thin as a dead fly. Rolled three mats underarm, homemaking charm. Hiked up my skirts to keep my clean hems clean. From the dirt and the day, the dirt and the day, from the dirt and the day, to keep my clean hems clean. Hardwork, I don't give a shits. My body casts no shadows.
17.
What drivel peeped from the horns of the fallen rebel angel band? Did they honk a fungal flat fifth back at heaven before losing throats to Michael's hand? Doesn't hell look like a fun place, where you can chew yourself and there's no where to stand? Bet they hardly got a good one in before falling hard on poor, poor man.
18.
Got no regrets in life. Just wish I hadn't failed. I fell in love with a farmer's daughter. I could never, ever be a farmer. You could sketch her, bury your hand in her, wail for sympathy and never know her. When a full moon makes plain a dell, close your eyes, make love, or go to hell.
19.
Second List 02:15
20.
Seamsplitter 03:10
Hidden an eye under an X stitched shut my mouth, no, I just set patterns, a woolsea blue knit across chests florals hanging gardens grown lower off either hemisphere - a river is a bamboo forest of blue jean - I need less than a nest of spiders to weave a new dress. Better hope that there is someone at the end of the long table. Better hope there is someone at the end of the field. Better hope that there is someone. Better hope the darkness yields.
21.
If you really love me, buy me an island, oh take me to your house, and do me as you like.

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released January 1, 2013

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Boston Cream Party Princeton, New Jersey

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