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Showing posts from September 16, 2015

Priscilla, Laslow, finding the chair, losing John

Sister’s had these stacks under eyeball since the first Tuesday they appeared on her list. I open the door to the room behind the fire extinguisher. It’s a pretty room with pretty things settled inside of it. Some of them are hung on the walls with a quiet and dreamy weight but there are others that are tethered to the floor like sad pets. Buster is behind us in the corridor. He was going on about something Chair had told him, something that sounded like this, The shape of our language is a vagrant’s bone. Engraved in the stern hip of our trousers lay the slick hormone of our chance to call it…
When Finch gets lucky he points at it and he calls it, Finch. When I get drunk I get confused. I get to blinking and I sit down fast. It’s almost always Buster that’s in the cheap seat beside the case of soft melons after a hard day. But I can still see what it as it is. I can still call it Finch if it gets lucky enough to dance. That’s right, dance…
On the dias in the back, it’s the folding ch…