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A once and heavy time for Flo

Institutions that STANK... It’s important to know a thing, first. If in time if it needs to fit inside than you’ll want to if in time if it needs to fit inside than you’ll want to - beth2BETH
Ho, so it is that when the raineth does so cometh like the wet that it is. Then the chorus will join in like it’s a hollow sunbleached shack, "Crisis, crisis, crisis of a meaningless future being spent navigating meandering networks in search of pleasure or finality." We'll all dine on warm crow soon enough, our small tables been set. The hog lagoons with their hyper-superslop will swell and sluice through the slow streets of the south. The car fuckers will roll over the tree fuckers and the blue eyed sons of Maine will grab all of the water like they're sinking turds late for the bottom.

We'll drank the warm booze and we'll watch our shows. Broken glass is like gritty champaign dust to the ears of the moderne. Our backs have slipped through the noose of this frame and ou…
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If you should read this now, this is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs.

This is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs. That is, this is about a very soft performance that is about to be displayed inside of a closed room with little or no light. There will be props and there will be tools but there will not be any margin for error. This piece will begin with a loud noise and it will run for 7 minutes. The last sound to be made will be the sound of documents shuffling along in the direction of a barely audible, thank you.

This will be about all of the things that I cannot do alone or by myself. Because, this is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs. A solo program that inserts itself at the intersection of race, gender and identity as they are being identified, weighed and measured for their appropriateness to any art which is on display that can be further interpreted as itself or as a long goodnight to any singular form relative to the viewers needs. 

This is about the panelist requiring a chai…

Like Trigger at Trigger School Just Say, Nay Nay!!!

Books might be required to stand together in neat rows like the brilliant tines of an unused fork, they're still often more best at having to wander around and laying down where-so-ever they happen to be when the tarantella ends. It helps them avoid any necessity that others might feel towards inventing new numerologies or exceptional meanings in the vicinity of their landscapes which are already garbled with robust rasa eating blather. Where engines are built like Gargamel there's bound to be blue. Where nobody remembers ten things and no one wins the ribbon for best in gender the page will remain still. Where most train-like will always succeed or even better yet be, there goeth the sun.

The stove is outside on the shaggy grass. It's autumn already and I'm feeling isolated from the ongoing exchange of culture. There's no pumpkin spice, no fish at hand. The meat in the middle seems to have got sour from being too long warm and away from any real care. I think it&…

We're laying these out where the ground is tender and our time has been frustrated, we're saying this.

Let's lay waste to the comedy of modernism by watching poor Peggy, with her pistol of sadness and the sack of ape eyed tears that made of us each a burly home. Poor poor farm of malls shorn from the fields of food left at the end of town. Little box, aimless courageous little smoker smoking the oil, smoke.

To the house on the water I'm going and I won't be home soon

Going down on strangers,
it's written here on the back of my hand
The watch in the book is broken and that bird on my pillow is not
Gone around this whole ship and the waves in the water are wet too
I've crossed the sea just to tell you
That I'm out here swimming alone
Today's about over
I'm going down there
The way to the water is simple
Even if it's been a bit of a mess before this

Where there's ham and bricks of misogyny on the board of that tub there will be garlic in the stove nearby yet none on my tongue. It's hard to see you smile with your legs shaped like that. Let'…

Creation (Nth tool of the tree)

"What about the egg and the milk?" "No, you don't want it to curdle before you get some ground around it," I told her. "Don't forget the flour." The garden was already busy this morning. The wet shock of the storm had made the stone path slippery and the leafs and the vines tossed hunterly greens around us and up into the canopy above. We were witnesses the menace as it unfolded around us with every step. That's when it dawned on me, I scooped up some mud and gravel with my two hands. The fibery moss that was mixed in with it felt delicate and honest. I compressed the wad of Earth into a tight little ball. I envied the extent to which the narwhals and hummingbirds shared this world. To my lump I added some shiny feathers fashioned from the petals of a sad cornflower. Then to finish, all it needed was a good snout. I found a bit of straw, the remains of some child's fanciful snack. I set it in place, now my contrivance looked perfect. How …

Woman is triangle, she is over the door before dinner

It's a dark time for people everywhere. They live inside their cramped houses taking pictures with their phones. Underneath a cloudless sky like a great inverted eye that's speckled with tit spray and the smeared logic of black agnostics. Paul Bowles directed the revival of Tis Pity She's a Whore, it opened in Hartford, May 1943. No snow was visible among the bramble by the Park River. When she stops and says, goodbye. Her carriage is white and it stands tall in the road. Paul seems to be very small beside of it. The mud crunches underneath his heel as though it's half baked. They stand beside one another for a moment, feeling as though everything is rather poorly timed. As though the road and the smoke from the flares can hide them from the world as it continues to change, to rain it's weather down upon them.

She says, feet are sore now, they're bootsore when we're drunk and handing things over like noise. The crime for us is god and god is getting old li…

Ovid for the Weak

The world is a ball that's covered with fuzzy green and blue flaps that look like strips of warm puppet flesh from very far away. If it's dropped then the world sounds quietly like wool falling into the depth of nothingness. No one really knows what will happen when the world's sun goes too far away, but I think that I do. Its seas will shiver when they get cold of course and its garden's fruit will fly right up inside the nighttime of space. It'll be very much like a silvery trail of dust then. One that's made up of apples and brown coconuts. Eventually whole melons will spin off and they'll form their own brand new systems. The new moons will be peas and ladybugs will bob and carreen. Old lottery tickets, shovels and the husks of bees will be drifting quietly. If you're lucky for long enough and you keep holding on, then you'll see all of the other people of the world. They'll be singing with their outside voices as they leap up into the sky …