Walden will be the collection of datoms that we call a line. It will become the outside.
From there in the furthest distance from fringe we'll weave an uneven million eschatons into a normalcy through non-burdensome words. Because none are more than a pathway and the entire planet is paved.
We will attract inward, always lessening the variables of our equations until the soap box proclamations sanitize the heavy public of those little squares.
I only meant that none could come lovelier. Although she knew the angry...
late autumn swings its concrete pendulum through pleasantly weighted eyelids on Sunday afternoon after a morning of just enough too many too much cigarettes, coffee, cannabis sex, eggs, bacon, rest, touch
where a man has nothing left to spend and the smell of a satisfied woman soaks into the cracks of his hands that the using them outdoors causes and his beard shares her pleasure with the cold air screaming through the cracked window of a car
these are the days of the slow pet pup and the rocked to sleep baby the jetpack needs a tuneup but is still kept running in the closet
saturday mornings exist in a space where its language lives off the grid
there is no more memory of the wars they've become as hollowed as the echo off dishonesty and the artist's studio has finally gone dark when midnight oil spins in the mud of overuse while the lovely ladies in hand woven linens still twirl dizzy into dandelions on hillsides
November's first week ends in an impossible palette layered in lavenders back-lit in pink with greens from the foreground pulled through a spaghetti strainer up passed the umbers and reds dangling like leaves blowing kisses to brown bark
not yet noon, and tonight promises of a blue that the mystics chew on but cannot digest it is announcing its emergence in light rain