we left before daybreak on a buckskin and a roan
past tall shivering pines where mockingbirds moan
past dark cabin windows where eyes never see
across the blue mountains to the allegheny
The humans are coming apart. Literally. It is like "I Fall To Pieces," or "She's Come Undone." Only worse.
Have you ever noticed that economic charts and graphs resemble webs spun by spiders who are drug victims?
Something else one cannot help but notice: men do not know how to dress themselves.
Marianne Faithfull: once, she was of the Immortals.
She had to be—all that time she spent with Keith Richards.
Like Richards, Faithfull had the constitution of a mule. Nothing could fell her. Sure, sometimes there were the comas. But she always pulled out. So, too, when she would break her jaw, or her heart would stop, or her lover would leap out a 14th-story window, and become a stain. She always came through.
Tomorrow the Kenyan, he is going into a mosque. He is coming out of the closet. Across the nation, the heads of white people, they are preparing to explode: they just know the Kenyan is going to go in there, kneel down on a prayer rug, and bow towards Mecca.
"Do you all come here from different places?"
"There are some here from Siberia, some from Lapland, and I can see one or two from Iceland."
"But don't they fight each other for the pasture?"
"Dear me, you are a silly," she said. "There are no boundaries among the geese. How can you have boundaries, if you fly? You humans would have to stop fighting, in the end, if you really took to the air."
