To Ache Well
I rarely do.
Have a comp-
lete thought
(you know,
without start-
ing another one,
I mean). Take
the rock I’ve
been sleeping
on for a week
now, for ex-
ample. Nice
view and all.
But it’s a rock!
And a very cold
one at that. And
however heavy
the wind blows
(also, quite
cold!), it never
really carries
me, my thoughts
or that confound-
ed rock (from
which what an
extraordinary
view!) away.
“Aw, shaddap,
Jim!” “Okay,
okay,” says I,
“good night,
Slim.” “Good
night to you,
too, Mis-
ter Jim.”
To which he
just has to
add, with
his arms
and his
four fing-
ers in the
air, look-
ing just
like the
metal-
head he
never was,
“You rock!”
Then morn-
ing crows.
And it’s
funny how
the aches
are never
terribly
funny until
years later.
“Years later,
Jim?” To which
we don our
Devo ziggurat
hats and fan out
into the wilderness.
