Suharto's Organ

Of composition universal and diet on film, fib, affliction of power, subtle change in appearance, so in love with custom and gentle union, until we're treating our bodies like special, desperate days and arrangements, one blue moon after the other, corrugating into rustic evolution rinsed of hands, upon nostalgic liaison, and the purple heart. It would only take one string, one repeating setting to yield forward entry, government victory control patch alighting this old weather fading out in numerous material made vapor next to liquid, never mind the sleeping pattern kept idea-proof, one blessed-on word thinning that sounds like song to the student of falling tide, price, and Beatlemania, melody fever, a governess and work from which I woke up in the dark this morning of electronica, outward where is my eye, on my way down here. There is one way to fall's eventide mentor and sovereign door to talk to handed down in verses. In my own dark way, hearing the sound of rays and groping sleeplessness backwards, on the track I put down on my own, my own label, forgetting something I'd done when the street had emptied out and I became aware of my fingers darting outward

in an array of sheet music, co-flying everywhere, with the same short sounds playing over and over until apartheid. Why am I in pain? Is it just vocation that I find necessary? mesmerizing? a line of cornets? Since I've been a sardine in the way of nothing else, my dark idea of solidarity, I cut the forced drum out from its skyline, where the rancid, mutinous, soft disguise we're keeping on today rises in the evaluated case that I find necessarily dumb. Maybe what I'm missing here are my arms. Nothing else sounds like one does not know how to find oneself scared of the flanging voice, or two of them, wracking my brain with language, except I'm leaving it up to you, up to my neck in violence, raking up the paper. For every Ray Manzarek there are two of me disintegrating on my way down here today, like a trumpet ringing out mid-morning.

[Ad: Keep them up on a box over lighting, reify them, having them stuffed with false entrails or bad remedy laced with deadly drink in this huge country, an amalgamation of 17,500 islands and hundreds of ethnic groups paid for their unending biography opponent, echoing when written about that night.]