Nearly back where I started, the circling is wearying, like a needle never crossing to the record's other side.
Nearly back where I started, alone among phonograph records, weighing down the needle with a rock
up up and away, the fifth dimension beckoned while with arms outstretched I turned in place to drill for daydream joy.
Her attractive pain can't beat it
for trying times and the interruptions of long pauses,
can't blame the weather for failings that go on in airless space
inside a skull beside a telephone, the suspension of effort on dry sticky satellite webs
the hissing of trees hung with dead plastic convenience store bags.
Postponement of diminishing inevitability, the lengthening hours of long light in the golden molasses of countdown
sugar high lonesome journey into otherwise--
Teacher in space, what embedded force foretells it.
What acquiesces in the prevailing economy, what accepts wages and tips, what acts as if nothing were free, what is proud to be a blunt pencil stub, common as a thumb, what sides with the done in what's done, what diagnoses wishes as distempered pleasures, what counts the hours to no purpose, what marks alternatives for rejection, what locks the files on fancies trapped in passing.