I’ve barely skimmed the surface. I hardly made a dent. The crossroads of all my philosophies, the fruit of my labors. Nothing in the larder, pockets always roomy. Measured at a spider’s pace, the curtains closed up tight. A life of picking poses for my corpse.
Not stars, not rain, not the sliced apple moon. Walls worn down by silence and shadows. Walls that hold their breath. A house, room by room.
We’re the ones that get found by the neighbor. We’re the ones that get eaten by the cat. These long haunts of the socially awkward and abhorrent. The dull epilogues of the walk-ons and write-offs, the unlovables and the hard to heart. Gone, and going on and on.
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
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simmer
The hours drag and drawl, the vision blurs and fades. The world is more at once, this flight of wing and flower, this litany of sudden silk ...
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The season settles again on the unseasonable, my bones ring with the resonant chill, something’s always missing after a death. The hard shif...
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There’s not much to do once the sinking sets in, once you feel the collapse throughout the collateral, the drag of the earth’s core gripping...
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The words circle, the words spin, the words become and begin. There’s really no excuse. Just padding out the package, just filling out the f...
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