the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
absent-finded nothing there in the obscure nothingness of this serenading air of my soliloquy, oh woe is me as I am lost and found in a self-pitying hole of dreams—its excavated earth strewn across city streets, where ho meets him, doe meets her, where strangers consent to meet in a passionate blur of intermingling tingling and token satisfaction—in my lament I turn back to these hopes once sewed together by sock puppet seams, tattered remnants of growing up and blowing-up rules, the jewels of genius that may have begun to lose their luster, if I begin to not trust 'er dedication to our loose laws of parallel discovery, the recovery of this serendipitous find lies in peril, o where o where o can my fine esprit be? Oh where oh where can she be? If not stuck in an enigma of time—shared and pulled and tied by strings of stranger things then those many splendored—and then I pause to send her life-saving circles of sucking wild fruit—shoot! darn! I've lost the thread of this yarn, side-tracked by "in fact" and flashing memories of her charm—then I pause to ponder the mind of this schoolgirl wonder to think "could I offend 'er? With an unsavory blend of child's learning and clandestine yearning—details beyond hope and bordering on boredom, the scope of my regale has no tail, no end, for if the telling is as prosaic as I am, me, this passing flea of a suburban man passing over Jersey wasteland (meadowlands they call them) and the Passaic river (again) to close my eyes, to take in the rurrrr of rubber against the black, the jangle of a metal rack, and the whisper of two strangers getting to know the other in the back, with this I blindly face the notion that even if magic is a friend, it is only in being human that its power, its potion, can come to an end.
the art of living the art of love