The Calm Before The Butterfly

Sophie B. Altman. Dunt dunt dunt. That was your life. That Jiang sure can kowtow, don't worry Sichuan, Grandfather is looking out; for the Audi boys; wonder what my local weather is oh yeah sultry; and the Myanmariat says "You call that a fist?" Of two million-ish schizos on the street: Never lonely, or always lonely? And natural gas will double too. Coal up. But the Chestbumper-In-Chief told me. This is where I wherevered. Others voices. My girls is stronger than yours. My girl.

Long Term Taxiing

Better not be too nice boy, she take you for fucking (yes, me musty) around. 'll not give a fuck (again?), for twice then, say it up front, so they know to click, click away, click away; before It again; before it again. Because heaven forbids. As if your sheperds, wouldn't know from a curse. This is where we breath; fight not adding e. How do you still the nervous hearts twin rabbitings? Okay. And your own?

Always With The Brand

Helsinki Brussels Brussels Halifax. All places I want to go with you? Ha, Belgium was no, not even Brugge, but I would like to fuck in the loft of a barn (on a high hill looking down upon a russet dream) older than Texas, somewhere in Connecticut far from NY (with a blanket or standing up, hay, no, number three, not even) with a green pasture splitting the trees as the lay falls away to its point opposite the golden light of a dying season (call it life, well, call it garlic salt, Wound). The shivery smell of warm tequila? I can't write past my retardness. Slow? Mentally challenged, I member. I'd feel sorry but the my left foot Christy Brown (Crumlin, Dublin) or someone fixed worse, and also doing more, would just make me feel sorrier; like getting behind a politician; or believing that anything in any of this matters to the wheel. But it does, more than any periods, and oil. Sagebrush Tumeric Saguaro. My other baby, same mother. Back to the fucking. The sunrise goes quick around here. Brugge is fine.

And Now The Rant

Reverend Wright wasn't all wrong (me and pavlov like that), well everything after God Damn America; well fuck you for a pulpit too. To a? Screw a, it. What if glib is all we get bitch? That wasn't gender specific, this is: fuck Oprah, for her ubiquity, and all the rest of that POV hive. Wait hey whoa. Did I say? I really meant: me me me. These really were the good old days, too bad we had too much of everything to notice, until we didn't; mm, everything but a working conscienci.

One Oh Thirty Nine

Wood smell is sweet; but not as much as that musk-milky one, ha; Two, if we ever, may it be a dual, dual mastectomy, but switch out life with breast or mamma; because I don't wanna; and ol'Vonneguts fear of a semi-colon can't touch this fear of receding from the island at 2 x speed x forever voyager, voyeur to this was your life, that, or relearning your words and your past through others and the count is: life, two: coming and going; dead, one: just the once; once million. Better maybe a tanka? Or another word for ocd? That's what I have for you, counting your tiles in my head asleep, biting on my nails working the grid, awake; what a love letter A; that you bleed yourself, my surest ring. I am constant still, always. Muah.