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Fudging an interest in the frantic morning, hangul specks on my missing milkteeth. Arrogating the irritant, which is not real at least not in this morning of smooth distrust. Lend me your hankie – today doesn’t feel solid yet – because of the anxious fluff on the thinktank of everything. There’s a poetry on my waist that smells like incompleteness, but then, everything is incomplete, and then you die, like a silly rabbit. I don’t mean to be negative… there’s a brightness on the terra cotta and pale blue – both – and that’s your homework – to understand that more completely – not the levelings of the imaginary city or its meticulous restorations – the “human community” is just chaotic… we can’t seem to get it right, and most people are too austere in their sophistry … a smudge… on an iphone… a fried cricket… fruit I listen to for its dumb lyricism… the grapes sing prettily, even the horrible news is full of poetry… but I don’t mean exactly to celebrate it for that because life is too…. The easy seductions of puns, dandies, cats, all abloom in my womanly voice as imaged flutter: these are the cantilevers of my inveterate secretions. Come on, we’re either posing, positing, or ovapositing the brittle germs of our little theories.
day now starts to take shape beneath my wondering arms: the star reason, the man reason… and person reason… I’m not sure why I always want to break the day into mists… something to do with havoc… the not-so-erudite lisp of my human musing…. the women have ponytails… the men… stocking caps… nested like phrases on their active heads this rattly morning. Now when I think of you I think of me… green screen, flying…. in a shao-lin goddess kick through the air, aimed… at you. I do also wear the chiffon – it streams behind me to show my vigor and my direction. I feel anyway like just part of the season, an ingredient in a dish, not the whole dish… light on the teal girders… hoping this revels some externalized inner cadence… trying to “externalize” the day: it starts again like a pop tune. Every day thrust into windy life… work… the slurring of midlife a kind of milky whirr. An admired hat or groovy stranger… the discomfort of receptivity – I watch everyone with curiosity, blue and gold gems crowding the scene like fires – not saleable and not dismissive.
I wonder if you think of the starlit movements of the hairy mind in all your snits and rages. So I don’t sleep as an elegant duck, sleek and tucked and rotund in comfort. No. Those happy workings are here revealed as flimsily mundane renderings, not so much toxic as averagely creative, and that is what I mean by distraction: his green hair, her leopard tights, etcetera.