Write tacenda * on envelopes and send them out with eternal stamps as the wind blows around the room, like “there goes the night!” in a chilly, cauldron-brewing voice with gravelly vowels, and bewitching consonants. There goes a stirring presence outside. Life of an animal. Some created beast of the deepest purple, imaginative domain. A black bear wearing a red/brown coat. Used as a rug in front of the fireplace. No derth of pets here in this sanctuary.

* ((tacenda are things not to be mentioned or made public—things better left unsaid; tacit means “unspoken, silent” or “implied, inferred.”))

Die in obscurity like sleep and everything else.

Tasting ground up teeth and weaving spiderwebs of future images in this weary, relaxed head. Away from apartment searching, complex confusions, innate details and fighting through anxious habitat. Stop tapping on the glass. I want to pretend you’re not there.

Pull the lever, the pressure is on and the startling amount of people driving is a crazy distraction, every now and then, with two hour traffic beers and wordless interaction, is it pretend to tell stories or to become a cog in a machine of purple fright? in this night zone, I found myself absent and unable to call for back up, with the singed ear of a hurricane epicenter, realize the time spent, bursting with words to convey, follow those crazy guitar thoughts and bass playing on the opposite end, we were concluding facts about how certain thresholds seem to fail to happenstance.

We are surprised by our impossible reactions. There are breaths, eyes closed, calculated steps and bed frame jam sessions, decide to open up like an envelope with cursive Latin insignia at the top, the centerfold, unveiled, habitat damage, focal point, underground railroad spikes, meeting of the minds, gregarious, numb fingers crumpled into fists, jammed into pockets, dimes stacked like a tower of layered cake, finding the frosting in a blizzard, make love like a batch of fresh cookies, ignore the sweet tooth urge and find escape through the realm of clean, unadulterated sleep.

Meet toward where we sat last time. With guns on our shoulders, capes on our backs, bleary overstimulated fog, unable to choose happy, appropriate words, make out like a fool, in public transit, drunk after an embarrassing home loss, televisions smashed in the streets, graffiti on the trees, highway rumbling, the buildings withstand but the people don’t seem to, they open umbrellas and take off toward the south for the winter, like migratory birds, with climate style chosen by lizards, become another sun bathing creature. Now it ends in a hurried tap out. taken across the burning sand of empty memories in slight hindsight. meet for me the new king and I will allow her presence


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