Wrap the world in ribbons and what do you get? The world wrapped in ribbons and my heart tied in knots and someone’s dreams —surely not my own— in tatters on unhallowed ground. So tell do tell. What does all this wanting mean? Nothingness and rose petals and oddly tinted glasses. Desire breaks you at the point where you think you are most hale. There you find yourself weakest. Oh but to be in love with youth as so many seem to be. Oh to be in love with want as so many are swayed to be. Oh to be in despair and think it home! Such happiness would be found in all of these. We who missed our centuries or tripped on our chances or forgot ourselves and woke to the world which knew us when we knew ourselves not. Oh youth peers of mine who stand so mutely in their apathy who spend and fuck with a rage that belies their blindness. To the aged who die nearly children in cribs again destitute for pills with child safety caps. To the aging who having once marched seem to consider their duty over they whimper over eight tracks and now think they deserve peace retirement and a time to burn money in place of bras. To all of us the wounded the weightless the wastrels To the daydreaming doodlers to the boogiemen of industry to the dying the damned and the doily knitting suburbanites to the taken in and the taken aback to the mute and mutants. To the world falls the world. To the pretty girl with the cigarette mouth to the aging dyke with the battle scarred self to the negligent figure who never did father to i—I—, burning girl with the celebrant eyes, to the body that remembers to all the boogiemen who wait in the eaves all the various destructive forces that are mine falls me or something like it. I have no words. I write and gain no understanding. The ending is found but still knots and garish pink ribbons. The world, surely, is mad.