Waiting for Cloud Cult: A Mashup

For Maria Winters, Greg Gillis

now, walk it out
all across the warping floor creep the old stains
through the innumerable pine-solings and sweep-ups
the residual souls from new Bowery cakes
the dance floor like a food-fight

Hey, you. I don't like your girlfriend
or the way she addresses you (in the diminutive)
as if you're a thing capable of reduction or
reductionist summary as in Boethius, Anslem, and most Greeks
(the only others readable are Godwin, Nietzsche)

Throw some D's on that bitch
and then talk to me using both hands, loudly
as if its raining and you and everyone else scramble
for newspaper whose dying mirrors the ice in Michigan
in the cruel, cruel April

The ascot lives on on Eskimos only
sippin' that Amsterdam
I don't want to wait
for this life
to be over

nor this youth which slips daily with
every Subway swipe and gray hair found,
plucked, the terror of the heating ducts, their
squatters, scavenging in the painted wall paper
while the sirens go "whee-a-whee-a-whee"