caesarc1990
I think I do this if only for a distraction
diversion from my real
heaviest of things-- I should not
be here, writing, but
I do it. I stack stones
to weigh against my problems
the stones are round, and vary.
go heavy,
hang there-- impatient
dear
dear pollution
of mine.
Let
your clothes fall,
I'll applaud,
let eyes linger
under
waterfalls,
peppertrees--
rock
bark
skin
hair
teeth
gnash
argue
argue
argue.
Take this golden hold, hoard away let things pile, creep up the walls and bloom like grey mold, but dealer, fuller, waiting like a spore that smells deceptive, and sweet, like old friends, like smiles, like years, like an empty chair
Lend. A hand, an ear. Two enormous things which don't require surgery.
it started out low and whipped back leading us to believe we were in control and promptly proclaiming otherwise with a steady flicker of chimney red.
There was a string of text sectioned off in the suspended liquid of the air, spelling out the weather for the weekend in a small town through the blurred yellow windows of an evening train.
There rested a small beehive in he upper right corner of the Bailey shack. all the stones we threw could not relinquish the grip it had on the place. The small tongues of flame slid upward towards the ceiling as if they were trying to taste the honey it held.
An atomic thing, at first attaining anteroom, antique, anthropology, anticipation... A creature by itself powerless, but a creature in a mob, a sentence.
There are two people, There are 50 states. There is one state of mind between them. There is a certain emptiness between them, as smiles flicker like pitched cigarettes ashed out car windows like wild and loose justifiers.