But at night, nothing had actually changed.
“The Voice of the Turtle”
We still worry.
The sweep of the moon over breasts, the butcher block kitchen, dune buggy drivers and the trans-pipeline sand ramp.
Oceans below and things marked.
Swimming in you out the window:
The biosphere of what always was there
grass ponies, manifestation,
your artistic instinct.
We each wrap in towels after a tragic twist in the gangster narrative.
Then there a sign
You made me
We all do it:
beach and throw away yourself
Tension fades with the blue of this feeling and strings made of steel:
high, art, night, skin, cruel
the ways we are.
[The italicized titles are the song titles; "sand-pipe ramps" and the images are from the giant comic book/tarot adventure laid into the gatefold of the record sleeve. ]