Too My Dearest Em (at astronaut school)

there's a barber and a mask and a gold thrown pillow

Too My Dearest Em,By virtue of being me I'm still here and still known only for my more obscure works, the grass that smells, and the softening effects of light varnish. I might not be included in any of the heavier books that you'll open but when you browse the stacks I will be represented. I've been thinking about you while sitting in a nearby tree. I had to play in the rain without you the other day. It's why I'm writing actually. I'm not about the things that I've done. I'm not about the old and the pious plays that men and women can love each other through. Not when I can miss you more.
Affectionately Yours,
Em

In this group we will affectionately discuss the persecution of such dynamic traditions as teams and their enthusiasts. How they contribute to an ongoing conflict which itself is a necessary component of the new urban economic ideal. How then does this ideal fall short of being actualized? In part it's these symptomatic patterns of null growth that are defined in systems which resemble complex symmetry but ultimately fail to present a large enough data set for any true comparison. How then can the post-contemporary narrative embellish and influence the perceptual experience of this work given this lack of true comparison? First of all, it cannot. But can this circumstance be isolated for deeper critical analysis along another vertices that is identified with either race, class, or gender? Can the overall conflict be isolated and documented in its entirety with these patterns once they've been statistically initiated?

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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)

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

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

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