LAST NEXT START END

FOR ALBERT AND DEATH: DANCING INTO THE NIGHT I coated white-out on three old washers (because I had no coins) and while sailing majestically, inexorably, as though ordained, through a southern ocean (South Pole astern; your icy urn ahead, well below the earth's gravid curve) I threw a Ching for you. You did not practice caution and pushed on. The second, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth changed to lead the strength of excessive greatness to the silence of eternal stillness. The first and third, missing their chance to change, would have led instead to eternal joy. Pretty canny! Did you rush into the white light or not? Will you wander unseen in courtyards, or will I have to look for you, as I live my middle years, like Mishima's Honda? Will you hum the bass lines to the songs? That will be my sign.