Thanks to Jamie Sharpe for this photo! Jamie wins a free book!FRIDAYYou will be going at some point, and this happensto cut into the furnished sound of our time.Within sight, if you hang the incredible motionof what you burn off every day, the gasseswould form hands, and those hands, while grabbingat our throats, would weigh nothing, nothing that we know of,like breathing or the hoar frost that dusts over these days.You can tell which of my leanings will be crushed.It has my voice and where you’ve been.What will you wear to remember the middleof nowhere, the shadow that could flattena mountain, the time it took to nearly understand?
SUNDAY
I am researching a testimony that includeswondering when do I drive on to get used to it?And then there is the softer round, and thenthere is enough. And just then, tooling past the secret of how all directionjust sits there, I come forward to wonder, well,I can’t keep away every minute you’re not near. And you,you’re by no means ever alone. It’s like stoptelling me I have a face. It’s like stop staring into the seasonal gapwhere then I had more, then I had morethan I’d hoped for. And like the ancient saying I can’t believeyou invited them over again, I keep the lid on tight,waiting for some law to protect my nervous systemfor what it is.
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SATURDAYI am tired and mindless, still hooded,it’s clear to me now, under the reaches of an oceanthat’s slowly begun emptying itself out for a clear refilling.In finite terms, a bus is coming. For the curious, yes,these are our work clothes, and thereis the bathroom, and one of us will never seethe other again. There are long standing nightsthat I am hoping you’ll take over. So many morningsof thuddingly unsure supremacy, instead ofsuddenly I’m sure there’s a pharmacy. I love you.You are sick and I am not helping.I’ll call around and see what’s still open.
FRIDAYI’d comment on how thunder commits itselftoo much to the longing. I’m sure I’m twistinga beautiful chunk of the landscape into hundredsof flatbed trucks that couldn’t imaginea more terrible day. We’re all going to be impressedby the following gesture: It’s official.I want you to be awake for this.Just before entering a squat that should block offthe main road, I heard a rumor, more or less,that you were standing in my room halfundressed,making normal to unbelievable decisions.
THURSDAYOnce it’s no longer called going under the knife,I’ll stop with packmuling my kyphosis, I mean,my ancestry, I mean, in case it’s methat goes first, and believe me, what would I giveto be the guest of forgiveness.Eudaimonia, is that you under that sexy welder’s mask?I too have no nose—no beginning to my featuresto stand in for the last black rhino—dried mud covering my flanks, and flies, flies—will I ever make use of these words?
WEDNESDAYBlood, I may cease for a moment and enjoysomeone’s poor hatched scam.I quit using tennis as my only mnemonic aidfor traitor and mercy and blood.Someone is too poor to eat my lunch,while I’m in no mood for real estate, no moodto take a mallet to task for being shy.Oh, thou steeled gall, I am not so violetof a transplant. I am heartburn, and sure,whitely mostly at midday. Now blood,I know you want in to this argument. But bloodI’m emotional enough without you.
TUESDAYNow who’s tired of the complete diagnosisonly being itself, another, me out lookingfor what they told you? And who, for any numberof us, shall one day make up a new speciesof flame retardant bat?I’ve been waiting here, feeding stray dogson borrowed cows. Reminding myself that not everyoneloves the very dark look of the something once there.All mystery, in its random moods, is functionally beautifulin light of the paperwork and the bad homesmore of us our given.It’s sort of funny how we handle the time when all spare tiresare used, sadness and sadness, and who’ll be left out of the shotholding the camera again.