I never thought to
you as trying by angle if but a boomerang. I was unfair. I think you as
dangerous. I seem like one a bit interested in himself. it isn’t that. it’s
cranberries and gin. or vodka and eggnog. or it’s something I’m reserved to
say: our needs our ambitions where connectivity feels enormous. upon
sugarberries, in seldom quarters, again, bent off of rum. a damn drunk, so
discount me, or laugh—so hard we forget our existential. I ate papaya or
mingled in a daze at etiquette and roses. she faired differently. I speak it
plainly. but I do not desire more than a visual. as occasioned, they dance,
fretting repercussions, if but to exist as a desired creature. I was counting
mockingbirds, they’re most immortal, I play clown, or buffoon, or harlequin. so
much to ignore you, so much to dine with you, anything becomes a challenge. I
drank a beer a minute ago. I ate cashews for breakfast. I, too, a palm filled
with vitamins. so misleading. such a bad-good person. I wonder how it feels to
be nicer. let’s ponder it: nice is good, if a lady, but a man is misunderstood.
he must desire something, something acute, something he might not earn. I just
need niceness, or something human, or I need business, or delights, or I sound
confused. hinges are reinstalled, the world will test, while many monks are
sensing a koan. if you are a hundred years of age, why were you just born? a zephyr a miracle a ladybug.
