the
road is longer as speaking Japanese, with allergies to unravel. decaf
existence, or full throttle, while theological. logic a bit watery, disgusts
like molasses, or pleasures seeming sacrificial. I was unkempt a bit groggy
when panic seized our audience. but a cup of tea, but a lump of sugar, while I wish
to un-square — those parachutes as a soul desires if but to spot a joker. so
coarse on self, such guilty compassion, so wrapped it screams — the laundry
building those graffiti marks while inner cities seem too elusive: the same yen
those galaxy fens such glens near backstreets. I met a mistake. it was tremors
inside. such a huge ass elephant! such pinpricking such reality a month into
delirious. a showroom clown, a public baboon plus a sidelong glance. as rich
humility or making bouncing hard, while gripping a balustrade — those eyes like
flagstones those bones like sweetness, our bodies like liquids.
I walked the Beverly Center. I noticed salesgirls. I kept walking. there he was, looking demented, with a parachute. we spoke in moments. he was feeling grandiose. I understood the pressure.
such interior six-shooters, a world indifferent, where masculinity is mistaken as manhood. but a family of sounds but deeper conscienceness while too hungry to second guess.
some live a deathbed, parading injustice, a dear key to a nonsolution. too lost in a foreign country, listening to a lecture on ethics. a coat of kidskin, a bible with clauses, or finding humanhood difficult.
dinnertime for many, un-relaxation for millions, while required to fluff pillows.
