Ecclesiastes (once entropy has cried herself to sleep)

Talking again at an empty shelf, to some small profits that have gathered there.

"Wait I'm a curator of all of the cultural artifacts too. Wait for me please," The mild force of this otherwise diffused exchange waves and waves. Micromanaging the disorganized panderers is what the hands-on seats at the front of this bus look like. That's where the do it yourself crowd like to sit when they hop onboard.
"The next stop, Get-Things-Donesville," So with their jaunty caps and garish capes hanging just so. They gather in the seats behind the driver like real super heroes. It's like they're signing the Declaration of Independence over and over again.
"We're going to the apple farm for the whole day today. The high branches and the sweet smell of failure is so distant from here and there's going to be a special teacher for everyone of us. They'll say that I'm so special. I'm a little Special Pigeon, they'll tell me. Or they might whisper, You're a ray of sunshine in the vast space of ubiquity. Some may suggest, let's pull some of that low fruit down from those deeply pregnant limbs. Or cheer by way of our flattery, Jump up, yes jump up little darling. But they'll never admonish me when then can encourage instead. When they can say, Look at my little Curator go, I've got you. It's going to be alright parasite."

This is plain enough a game of acumen, diluted as it is in this lofty space again. Especially where the region of it's boundaries have remained so apparent. Still letting this work hang here like this is a reeling temptation for me. It hints at the dopeness of our wack bodies unfolding as they are from coital delirium or at the per chance happenings of frozen spastics, harried by the busy bee that's singing, There's a great big pile of piled up people going down to their downtown jobs and all those bunnies and those Mr. Turtles are team teeming with the mob mob mob There's the windup people in the cheap seats looking at the piles of people in the green streets singing riot to the mob mob mob. Singing, klick klick klack Jack, give it back Jack. We don't want your bloody war. If you're here for survival and you came in through the backdoor shaking. Than bomb it, pink bomb, left bomb, or itty-bomb bomb it. This elevator's gonna stop soon when it all goes bursting soon. So itty-bitty bomb it. Put a little hot sauce on it. Don't think about it...

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

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