Daylight headlights and clever humor throughout most of the clenched-teeth, gun reaching audience. Filling the blanks of thought with words devoid of confidence or true intent. Just like clouds passing over us when we lay on fields of wilting flowers, so it goes, leaning on the fence of obscurity, over which we poke out heads, mystified. We must consider the eventuality. Broken legs and blue feet. French wine and wedding dresses spoiled with blood red poison, we will suck out the venom by continuing to live well and with gusto

—- Wednesday at 12:03 am

We returned to the page we left off at. Folded corner. Reading words left to right and then backwards. Sneezing into envelopes and sending them to old elementary school friends. Discover where they live in present if they’ve survived for this long. How is your college education? Your roommates? Do you play video games and become stupid? Guitar and basketball, all games in a rut of indifferent melancholy, just as sad, voice of the ignorant statues, crusted in dense regret for better finishes, they could have chiseled down the shiny gold trim in order to give the illusion of furnished elegance, they left for the same mission but separated into terms of endearment, lowered voices in a real life sitcom, upstairs infinity, traveled abroad to find a new freedom of the French press, coastlines and elephant seals sparing in the low wash. Waves crash on northern inlets. The ocean remains vigilant with the same tenacity as a motivated school boy. Earn those stripes, boy. You play with what you keep. These decisions might be your reward, son. Your future is sewn into the wavering fabric of present time, like a flag at half mast, we connect with horror and tragedy, all pain in large doses can be conveyed in divergent recording, we follow every whim to track thoughts as they seem necessary, those back country thoughts in the dense night fields of my moderate attention span, I spent my childhood finding use for my hands, what a shame to ever come up short, the bus fare, lost and obnoxious under the prosthetic light, ominous and red, glowing through the curtains, sewn to the wind, desires fly up like misguided thieves in the dead of winter, fumbling for light switches and knife handles in the delicate inner sanctum, the beef began in the oven, cooking up a storm in the extensive house warming present of open fire, wild fire is very house warming, with the wooden patio cathedrals lit up by candle sticks with wax the color of wild flowers on cold idyllic mountain tops, our perception of beauty as we store eminent details into out black and white areas, the guilt and the watchful eyes of the sacred, saintly ghost story author, confident in their black robe grace during dinner hour with steak knives separated from the potato wedges, the salad dressing may as well have derived from a bridal gown store front, with the plate glass windows out front of whatever tight city square you can imagine, jaw clenched tightly I find myself rather quiet and speechless about my adjustment back into life the same as I left it, strange feelings that I took a coma length nap, any semblance of regular whit and charm, hating the words to the point of masked superiority, all senseless in the silent rain, the acidic words wash over these contact lenses, I must call about new hearing aids, I must seek bright blue contacts. The extra glow in the eyes, if that sparkle is for sale for an extra penny or a fraction of a nickel, I might less these hostages free. I want to get what I paid for. For once I wish to agree with a receipt more than just the right place at the right time kind of bullshit. The most mundane people you have ever meet will die in a scenic graveyard, with wood boxes housing crusted slit wrists, or purple necks, bruised to the bloodstream, with driving headlight rasta hats, make shift tanlines, under archaic ideals. Masks for real disgust. Dinner ideals have changed. I’ve been sucked in to this tornado before. It ripped my insides out to exist beside such vacuums. Turning into vehement hatred toward old friends. Unhealthy habitat for angel fish. They will pout their way into new cages. Nine of us our free. Out of ten. Are you doomed? In your hollow shell of your lanky insect body, tearing the pages of newspaper into violent strips, slices of fruit like circumstances beyond rehab or physical movement enhancing centers, with journeys down the street understood as life adventure, rather than full involvement in all unadulterated senses, the freedom in exploitation of senses, everything approached with the same curiosity as childhood, leafing through old presents gifted in a foreign voice of future responsibility. I remember the horror of growing older. The present was wide enough for greater than two souls, the lazy bastards swim in arid climates, suffering blank slate syndrome with meditative relaxation states involved in the succeeded nation of enjoyable sleep, in a vast realm of orange cliffs and shallow creek beds near creaking beds, the mirrors were shallow reminders of our self satisfied gluttony, did we fill out bellies beyond capacity, convinced of the hex, acting out to plan instruments in turn, the hourglasses topples over and we are dancing in our snow shoes on the dusty fragments of highly reflective glass, miles under the sea, we hold our breath in awe of mastered capacity. It’s all filled out with bloody pen ink. The sheets out sticky and memorably light. Stars filled the earth like spilled wir melodies. New guy syndrome,


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