In the literary equivalent of the music, doing the fewgoodmen Watusi parody in acts not of calculation but of the spirit informing the mind, the gig might live in tarflesh and Sapphire or
why she decides to braid her hair, why she decides to braid her whole hair into a statue
while staring at the almanac glossary, while the alms stack up to what-pass-you-don't-miss-you
People get too comfortable, the people who come from trouble get too comfortable with disorder---help (them,be
Folkloric, we fly so high in grey area the hawks get dizzy, hauling the air lean on me I mean it, no binge beliefs
we sleep on the wind
selling the glow off suffering, I swear from the vintage kimono I wore in the morning that my subservience was just about to kick in when it didn't
I love him
That the pride of cowards and coercion can't beat the pride of the one who listens to ice melting for a living and can still afford to make it stop
and dance with me til we scarce running out of blues but there are hue-bare globes frozen quiet for us to be so high you don't know what love is, in the back of the book under Volta there are 2 parallel lines, two floating alphabets, the scent of fresh basil, knowing that it's staged, stays, hanging from the strands of your own mind and never be afraid to kick in opposite directions at the same endangered hope it remains as warm as maybe-- It is spring, it is spring again, I say so
