heyou
I'm back, and cutting the overgrown carpet in a path to whiskey or pillows.
Antisocialism, keeping with the spirit of the nation, is to be expected from Trendware AccuSync in the following weeks, if such information pertains to you.
Ps. You all be my bitches (Said while lovingly cupping your rotund and cherry tipped faces in my calloused, yet gentle hand)
A note to the readers
This is not a piece of literature. It's a note.
I'm writing more than appears. I simply assume you'd rather not read fragments and bits, so this space is soley for finished (even if they need serious revising) pieces. Should you care to see some of my more fragmentary bits (possibly to be put together under (working title) Dhamerville), look at my other website, lists. It's updated more often.
So, apologizing for the speed of updates and spelling.
One final note. All online work will be on haitus until May 1st or later, and CoW won't be done until at least mid May due to unforseen migrations.
-A
3:16, 6:32, 9:49, 12:00
You're not prperly here, I said, but no one was there at all and. The action of boiling reached for my hand. Somewhere, you said something distantly while reaching for my hand. Distracted, the circuit closed, despite hesitating neurons. No dendrites. There was the day I said eclipse. The security cameras are confused, closed captions saying I think then hesitating. It doesn't matter how battered the flux is, I repeated at your reach. It is vital to summarize: It is vital to summarize. 3:15 and waiting for you to descend in one minute. The action of boiling reached for my hand. I think then hesitate. Don't jabber you said. Like the pistons and train wheels, you don't stop, even with my hand.
A series of minipoems (they're not quite standalone)(I'm not going to do 7 posts today)(also, CoW is solidifying. Hopefully I'll have it done by May)
I guess it’s not cancer after allI always thought
I’d be the one
to leave you.
RehabI’m an internet junkie
she moaned
sobbing in her mother’s arms.
I don’t write songsThere once was a man from nantucket
who kept all oh fuck it.
By the lightSweat tastes of the ocean
and blood tastes of rust.
The leather mat is long dead dust
and the gloves are oily lotion.
The golden ageWe sit among billows of smoke
swarming my beard and obscuring your hand
until I can't tell what wrinkles
or what fingers belong.
And you, for your part,
don't move, sitting like Mt. Rainer
Which is fine, I think
to say, and twitch my hand
on the counter, wishing
for a smoke.
The night your friends asked who I wasIt's late
I say to you, wounded leg
in the door, tattered khaki
stained and wet.
Taking note, you rub
your thigh and tell
me you'll be in soon.
CowardiceHolding onto concentration
she flicks her eyes toward mine
tasting the blue and the green
and I smile at my book.
