Endorphins

Where we lay
in hollows of flesh or door --

collect tea leaves before a stroll
in the park to find acorns --

this is how (organically, for once)
we have seemed to felt --

notice, in other words, the words
themselves -- they aren't practiced --

they have rhythm, fairly -- they aren't
escaping anything. In Indiana I played
Abe Lincoln, beard and all
shortly before being fired. How does
a man deal with shame? He hides it,
does not discuss it. It's a closed
locked door. This is a law. And I'm
a law-breaker. Not as a child, though --

always followed the rules like, ...whoa
now, maybe we're getting somewhere.

Just as you might say we are leaving
somewhere. The tents rolled up --

she's still wet -- she'll dry off tomorrow
or the next day in the driveway.

What I meant was there are rules
and rules of law -- binding and bound,
dead and alive, milieu. This isn't helpful
to expound.

Dead and alive, just like everything --
one hand, is a serif -- a letter -- a door post.
On the other -- ILLINI. Our nation's sweetest
despotic team, trading blows for bows for
hope for shame for victory... something
becoming lame. As you know, edited --
this could really be something. Moving on.

You have to, sometimes. Move that is.
From that to this is
now, this is where I put my mouth, this is
how I used my words. Already becoming
the past but even better than the explanation --

they are the explanation and the story itself.
This really is working. --

I've always joked about horseflesh. Never
eaten it, (as far I know) never want to.
I've used glue, never eaten it
as far as I want to remember. Like a puff piece
this tail is curled and then uncurled, curled then
uncurled -- David Foster Wallace would say
"Up, Simba!" as the camera man said in his
overlong piece about McCain when McCain
still seemed to be a real person. Champaign
Illinois' finest writer, at least so far. I'm coming
at you, Foster. Coming with you, Wallace.
Please give me this gift, David. You already --
you already have.