In the indefinite little paper-space between thought and action: a new book forming this week. "I remind myself I am a little old, and even more stupid..."
When abounded with disgust, I raise my glass ever higher and make my voice a niggling trumpet to sound over the rows of the thoroughfare.
The neighbors all cut their grass on the same day, and I wondered, were it some kind of signal they get, the one through his conspiracy radio and the other through his cowboy re-runs. Something to that to minded for another time, and I myself at ascrawl on nature pictures, trying to capture a sunflower, when maybe a moonflower would do; I've grown Moonflowers, the nocturnal cousin of the Morning Glory.
A seed bigger than Breana's nipple, I guess.
But the silence is circumspect, perhaps, and the words even less so. The wind cut around my ear last night and I whispered a prayer, and watched NASCAR.
When disgust abounds, I alone pound my fists against the outcast state, and kick and the pricks, and grasp the smoking flax. I can but relate my story, saying, "don't make the same mistake I made! Don't do.... THIS!"
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