"Out here on the perimeter, there are no stars.
Out here, we is stoned, immaculate." --Jim Morrison
I'm not some sort of spokesperson for eternity.
Still, you keep popping up,
asking if anyone wishes to communicate,
then you wig out when I answer back.
Let's talk about how I got here.
I was in the back seat of Daddy's Oldsmobile.
The baseball game was on.
Then I was launching off from some crazy trapeze into...this place.
Just another bauble in the costume jewelry box of the universe
shining brightly in the dark.
Now let's talk about you.
You're miffed when I don't answer, but shit your pants when I do.
I can't tell you where your dead Granny is.
I can't tell you if she's in glory or misery.
I can't tell you how much I'm starting to hate that silly planchette of yours.
So why did I answer in the first place?
Like Cole Porter says, It was just one of those things.
Let's talk about not talking anymore.
Whatever you're asking about--it's not my clowns, not my circus.
I'm just a bit of incorporeal ash floating around in the ether.
I vant to be alone
and boy, am I.
At least, until you came along, like a chatty seatmate on an airplane.
You say hello--hello hello!--I dont know why you say hello, I say
for Word Garden Word List--The Circus In Winter.
The Sunday Muse #255.
Music: Pink Floyd Comfortably Numb