Things that don't fit on our T-Shirts (or around their collars)

fig.034) if I were a thousand word title, I'd know where to go

Old and tardy, his slim shorts are overstuffed with giant white balls. But his shirt is the same dull as a stain of mustard once loosened with some lake water and a drop or two of Diet Pepsi. His shirt's buttons hang, they've clearly gone from tarnish over to the subtle embarrassment that's akin to a crooked tie that's caught on fire while checking the toast. "I tink you know, what it is I am say-ink?"

"What I tink for christ! What I tink is that you've been an ass. That's what I tink."

"I don't like your shoes either. They have those dribbles, dribbles all over the toes."

"Preacher, go fuck your cleaner!"

"There'll be more in awhile, they'll say. When I say to them, we're toothless but not too weird. The tacit yet repulsive angel still ponders Chicago's front steps with a warm beer drips on his shoes. Petey mutters dogly from his mat by the door. "Am I lying here or what?"

The old priest checks his watch again, "Nope, it's too soon enough already."

"Shit, AI cosplay in ten and counting!"

"Oh shit, I'm the writer. This is my game right!"

"You can't stand around on Kant, on lore or those bribes you've seen in the middle of all those Asian lady ghost stories you read. Hell no! We are the words, good christian words under a chain of birds. They're farting history as it's books are being named. We aren't Goodbye, We're fake flavor. We are like goodbye and we have to save ourselves."

"Number two," in it's divorce Chicago got the better house, it also got the bottom of the stairs where everything's on fire. Then it got the sticky door into the library, the one that's waxed with cat fat, old math and cartoons. Now it's curled up in the corner. The whole City's lap is up in the air where it's nakidity is a befuddlement of rhyme outside of the flashing lights or the pee in the ditches.

"My feet are wet. My feet are still very wet," Chicago sings.

"You see, Chicago's not old enough to be this old and I'm as soft as a shallow cup of green tea," New York New York New York says. "I'm blue as any other alchemy. I'm so blue only one of us can get by on the shoulder."

"My feet are wet. It's okay, my feet are wet too," Chicago sings loudly.

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

stagnanTVowels

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