history

You tell me that this is the beginning, that: "This is the only the beginning.� And that things will be all purple gold and green outside this moment, that things will fade and new life will begin after this one.

I walk down these empty streets and stare at the bricks that make up this lazy town. The sun sets in the west, goes down on the communists and carries life into the night. Up at the church we loiter on the steps and pretend we�re getting married. The cold winter wind blows, chases away all the things we know and cracks open the cornfields. Bittersweet iron hearted East Coast blue; you never do as you say you�ll do.

Before we knew the truth the sky was lit up like shell-shock, hard cock. . . and punk rock was born today. We learned to love the ways of art, this way of life. We were waste products of our existence, waste products of our desire (I�m not talking about excrement) because in this Global Village we were all just children sleeping in the corn fields, waiting for the sun, waiting for Nirvana and Buddha and Pisces Taurus Jesus man, and Iowa.

Now, not much has happened but we�re brimming over and dancing on the edge of social reform. We dance in the cornfields and people call our names but we laugh and ignore, this place is such a bore without us after all. We dance with the condors, slowly like Asian Thailand dancing and heroin girls in Moseley worlds move fingers precisely to bring great pleasure and joy. Oh boy! I love you sweetly, so serenely, and I promise you sincerely that I�ll never treat you like a toy.

Drinking green ink at ritzy caf� tables, I stop and think about rat-holes on the other side of the world. I remember Italy and street vendors selling chalky cigarettes, and postcards and crucifixes on gold plated chains. I bleed, dream Siamese dreams and love you because these are things you�ll never know.

Number three fire-station, anticipation, pro-creation. I got to walk home with Jimmy Dean today. He still thinks he�s playing in those wartime movies, his energy blows through me, and he makes me laugh. Brother wears his pants fallin� off his ass.

180 degrees to the left, we�re communists and he thinks that I�m in love with you. Texas is his exodus, and he doesn�t believe in Genesis. This is the first time and it�s lucky number four, we dream of kisses before the war. Mr. Dean hates Adolf Hitler, says he was a cherry picker, but cold war prostitutes like Eva Braun are number one. She�s a fantasie in his brown eyes with Christmas lights.

It all moves faster now, and sometimes we can�t help but stumble, sometimes we fall. Fall from grace, lose your place, adapt to the space that we provide. And I understand now that this is the beginning; that this is the only the beginning. This is childlike innocence and peppermints and other sweet things.

Now, we�ve purified, justified, come alive and there are days when I don�t think of you at all. Soggy sneakers and wet mittens on shiny hardwood. Icicle melodies and parties that come together after all. Walking barefoot down the coldest hall. I�ve been sleeping face down, sleeping around. Turnover, hang over, four leaf clover. Hot height, Victoria secondary school, we�ve all the tools to know this better than we do.

It is almost time. Snow peas and pearls and snowy cinnamon girls and in all honesty honey, I�ve forgotten more about this than you�ll ever know. We�ve buried our hearts beneath the snow and now we�re in � time. Somewhere in Germany schoolgirls with braids write about Nordic-ice worries and snow flurries and mountains of tears.

Meanwhile, closer to home: Patrick hosts punk shows in his living room, while Hermits sleep in his garage. He runs to the opera, slips up the street and remembers me in paisley.

The day after Halloween, Adam and Eve grew wings and became my friends, shared secrets and cigarettes in their basement apartment.

I am feeling as though I�ve missed something. And yet, in this muddy hole we have learned how to live and have become more of an entity than anything else. In these days before Christmas we exchange presents and kisses. In this primordial soup we try dancing, end up drowning, pick cherries and berries and sugar plum faeries from our hair.

Breathing underwater, lighting candles in our eyes,
We learn to deny and disguise the truth.