Monday, July 22, 2013


Reflective as the process, toward a leaf or this cigarette ash in my mouth.  As a number on a circle, black and green, the sugar masks the floor.  To say he.  One, two, three, four.  A marble egg.  His confusion becomes somnambular, domestic.  Anger a clear line running across the sky.  Low to the ground.  yes, it's blood.  Fathomed in a palm, a set of car keys, a set of golf clubs.  She said she was was she was not capable.  She is say to carpable or whatevering.
                                                                                             Seven again, legs itching in tall
                                                                                             grass, where every morning, do
                                                                                             the routine, clean off your glasses.

Susceptible to dinner or sweets.  Honestly, it's where his money goes.  Alternating within self-imposed boundaries.  Why does he always think the ambulance is coming for him?  With mock intonation because it's justified.  Spit out the window.  White circles in brown bags.  He hardly visits anymore.  No one has a single memory.  At eighty three, one expects reams of data.  One becomes a geologic formation, striated.

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