Blood is mostly water she thought to herself catching what he coughed up on her tongue and thumbing it into cotton costume his eyes were weaving , growing wings his isle was to wobble ghost mock the omen most men override in them their very magic torment
How could you send me here to the final broken image veering urgent and eternal how could the sweatshirt hold diamond studded reindeer and still be casual / a munition illness launched as power or the aesthetic of limpid stolid lips on the wall hip as luck blood or the new water somelier carving that bucolic tunnel into the bolted will
Give the black man the freedom to be his own enemy
That’ll be the end of Uncle Tom
That’ll bring your daddy back and all his guns and song
But freedom cannot be reformed
