Yoki and Jokie pass the time, pause, then pass more time.
Many do the same, doing time, taking time, pausing, repeating. Take our best friends, Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde. Neither a boozer. Both passable, yet both wild, wild, west. Walt by birth, Oscar by choice.
I would like ALL to become aware Oscar visited Walt back when Oscar was trying to get something going in Isle of Mann Mannn Mannnn Manhattan, back in the day. Walt was still around, hanging around, in Camden, N.J. revising away, on Leaves of Grass to the very end. The very end hadn’t arrived.
YES and CLARITY never arrived.
Oscar hadn’t yet gone to prison. He’d gone to prism, but so had Walt. Both had done time, both had done rainbow. Did Walt ever do prison? After his stroke, he did more or less a year, confined by paralysis. It was not hard time. It was soft time. It was fluffy cloud time, as before bed, thoughts getting fuzzy, as a pillow in preparation fluffled and ruffled, for to lay your head down, and over, thankful for “soft” feathery, cloudy comfort of sleep. A jangle in the clouds. Against their edges, irreducible irridenscence, transcendent. Reduction of cloud sentence to cloud phoneme. On the order of house arrest. On the order of body arrest. In other words, daily massages, assignations and advisements, and all the rest. Clouds make excellent prison pillows, gallow fluffles.
Spam of Human Affection 
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