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Rally, Go Cry Me

There's no snakes and there's no trees To tempt these sailors at sea No fortune has ever been found on your butt sitting down I know you know what I mean I'm not part of your team Not Japheth, not Shem or Yam or Ham man I'm just me Watching what I see Noah in a wading pool Noah on his knees Feeding binary opposites apples from the trees
STRUM STRUM STRUM, DOODLE DOO STRUM STRUM HOO HOO...

"You won't always need a plate but there are still many other ways of preparing a fine meal from almonds, carrot sticks and scraps of veal. Not all of them use mint either. Some of them will require kale with the edges charred. For this you'll want to use a stove-top burner but many chefs have special kale searing torches that they hold right inside their pockets. You can always tell, they're happy little lumpy things that are fueled with methane."
In some cases, if the fat is still warm you only need some dry wine and heavy cream for a simple but explosive sauce…

The eventuality of dissipation and Thursday

"Our's, deep and manic as the bottom bait in a half tub. The day will calm and the wind will finally die. The water will fresh itself in the end, no more salt or piss to taste," It should be higher still but this is where we are. An east coast flavored dog whistle in a haircut flavored love suit wearing a clipped tie under his bold chin swaggers by for a drink, "Hmmm, it's ornamental, tastes like an arrangement of cranberries folded into dry-goods, patient dry-goods. There are hints of ash in the back of it, they surrender quickly to a spry lavender that's easy if a little wan. I like it. How much is the bottle."

A woman in coveralls arrived early on the 10th. She unpacked everything slowly, inspecting each piece in turn. Then she skipped ahead and everything was suspended from the ceiling, free from all concern. The team left the park after that. The goodbyes were all warm and a lot of hugs went around in sudden circles with the echo of jerky sobs bou…

That biological fetus

"Goodbye," says the wet man. "This womb is mighty big. It's been a singular sack indeed." These are not the times of us so much as the place where the clockwork fails. The house is a'clatter in shifting gears and torn fabric. All of the tools of modernism have finally blinked and so goes the glass.
Gender is a lean and wary host, it's a comfortable friend, and the scary story on this broken bus out of town. It's a biologic frame with long social tendrils that delicately obscure the face of the hosted. We are blind, the sun has made us up. We are guilt with chance and dumb fingers too. The bath of my moment in the day of my job. It's around the corner, Hi-Ho! O' Ho, the superlative mange. Trust is any blanket that puts out all the flame.
Blue house with an orange dot behind the shrubs, it's a calculated risk. There's an Arthur C. Clarke novel in my back pocket. It's thin and sweaty. The pages are well dogged and they're very …

Modern Borked (1997)

There's the green lipstick pen, the pie eating plate from the contest in Dover along with the twirling cord from the windup phone on the wall; there's the singularly flat counter top in teal, the pink boots by the door, and an apron string from someones mother from somewhere else before. There are better days and there are better ways. This map is only intended to be right, a suggestion with as much flourish as none. The sun can shine when I'm sad. It can be aimless and off course in parables too. This is the story of a witness, that is all. It's the lullaby before going to work. It's the action that lets me swallow before I spit, she says. This is the hood that I'll pass on when I'm done and my promise not to linger when it starts to hurt. This is the quiet click and the simple math that promises an open door for one. The dressing room is tight, the hooks are worn and the mirror is a little bit foggy. A carrier pigeon and a small ant share coffee on the b…

45 45 45

Let me talk about your rose Your painted little rose beside the folded stream in the valley of time Let me talk about the lines the lens and all the things you've hardly been Let me try and doze With this trigger underneath my tongue Little lamb made of ivy Little lamb dancing home I see you in this bowl of peaches I hear about you in this song You're the shape of a quilted pillow Your angels are never young If ever I hear your people They'll spin like bubble gum
About Dona's plastic toys, "You put those guns in the hands of the people that start too early and they stay late, every time. You're too confident that they'll make the rounds again. There's that tall is in his eyes that are sad. They seem to make him feel a bit more than distant and bit less then he should. On a wet cold sweater day under the broad wall he's pretending to be a cold wet sweater on a different day. School is like this but it doesn't have to be.

Throwing bait at the pr…

peccata mortem

"Things could be more different if we had their trust still. There could be enough time for thinking things through. We probably wouldn't let them just go like that."
"The box, the white walls and the basement below it were always easy to fill up. We didn't even need to ask. Just dig a hole and people would write about it."
In the dark, the ruined lath and smashed plaster is reminiscent of crazy knuckles and sick cartilage that've been whomped until they're slick and pulpy. Death sits here underneath the broken roof. Death is making some beans. They're stirring the hot can with a limber stalk of elm, muttering and talking slowly, "We've aimed low enough."
"Any lower and we'd have to pull up the rug to find what got hit," they answer to themselves.
"We'll stop here and make this park our home. We'll live behind the vending machines and we'll blah blah blah," Still, they stupidly insist on talking t…