|
paste!
|
it arcs through 17 centuries of neglect and false documentation and bourbonization. when you sit in it, the garage door opens and closes, trims the rebellious hairs, because it is attached to the bakery, needs no instruction and so forth. it froths at the mouth like an iguana caught in a phonebooth, pen in hand. nod if you agree with jack red. there is no chance for it to return the second place ribbon as the ceremonies have been forgotten and the audotorium has been rented out for other purposes. this week the yam farmers are having the annual ball or so they've said in select circles since its being held in another dimension, orange in yaw, blurry in character; one recognized by the sparse debutantes and regular folk, even when clad in hydrogen bonnets and those silly shoes that make that disenchanting clicking sound. something was said about a chair. no worries, i am not responsible for your expectations. she told me that long ago when i asked her to try and call me every other day. what ever happened to that girl? she was 5'11. i know she moved to mexico but never came back with that infamous styrofoam carving of the original lone ranger. that clicking sound. red ribbons around carcasses in the sahara. those boots, all those bottles of crosswalks scratched mildly with worn-down soles. poking out of the prototype silence into the howling corner and its chair.
|
020609
|
