Post-flossing, but before leaving for work this morning,
I was literally stiffened with interest and recognitional terror while reading We Who Are About To Die, David Lamson’s sociological portrait documenting his time on San Quentin’s death row in the 1930s. How he flatly recalls:

"When I first came to the Row one of the chaps told me that if you lay still and rigid, and held your breath, the guard would get very excited and upset and would shout at you until you assured him of your aliveness by stirring and ‘waking up’. I tried it several times, but I had no luck; no guard ever took fright."

Although it seems to be the historically preferred strategy, we can hardly depend on our gatekeepers for concern.
        The fright-taking we ignite, by our seizures or stillness, could not be slighter.

As theater’s famous and biting courtesan whispers, sans tears, to its indigent acting foot soldier:
“[O]ur lot is the same.   For me, too, prodigious Rome could not protect from prodigious Rome.”


Roaming about this city today,
    I - an offstep keratose substance schlepping about in contorted madras shorts -
                    could not have been more fussy or gutted.
I mutter, and in your ongoing lack, literally ache in loneliness and unbuffered want of touch.
Crushed as such, I fidget much.       But do feel . . . do, at least, feel.


We must forge whatever is to be had ourselves.
Quite prickly. This prospect. As it happens.
                                    Or if.

I leave - taking as always - though unintentionally so,
Your Person-in-Making,
the frequently faking,

Beans

p.s. May these few soft and gelatinous images hopefully serve to bookend those crisped and claustrophobic inner ones via their wispiness. An unfixed mix of the floating viscous.



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