Chrissie's taking care of my dog. Oh, what a dog. "Dog bite/on my leg/not right/'sposed to beg"-Black Flag/Henry Rollins
Chrissie spent some time in New York. I spent some time in New York. She had a day and a night and I simply a morning, a morning away from Newark.
So, New York and Newark. Trains and planes bring us here
Hangin' out at the foodcourt in Newark on a twelve hour lag between home and home.
The first time in Newark I slept all night in the airport on my birthday after getting released from the Army.
Now it's for Belgium and the purest person in the world. That's home.
Asleep in airport furniture is the purest torture, it's like being on the rode, brokedown and having to sleep in a two-seater sportcar, accept your in Jersey and it's grey water is everywhere.
That's all.
The next will be from Belgium with love.
this is a word.
One word.
With this it becomes the only word.
There is a dragon among us and it's the dragon of drool. And what a dragon that could be, but the word is not a dragon and nor am I and nor are you the word for no word and no words can be all of us.
Some times this can be shit.
Shit a thick.
Thickin' up your shit with toast.
Toaster parade.
Can a computer laugh?
There is no time for this.
There is only drool at this late an hour.
But Fifty-Two-Forty is still a word.
"This is the pit of torment that placid end
Should be illusion, that the mobs of birth
Avoid our stale perfections, seeking out
Their own, waiting until we go
To picnic in the ruins that we leave."
-Wallace Stevens Transport to Summer, "Dutch Graves in Bucks County"
That they sit, he and she, at a table made for three with three chairs, three settings, but they are only two of four that take up two chairs and all the air of that room. They feed each other slices of a winter fruit, almost frozen.
Should be illusion, that the mobs of birth
Avoid our stale perfections, seeking out
Their own, waiting until we go
To picnic in the ruins that we leave."
-Wallace Stevens Transport to Summer, "Dutch Graves in Bucks County"
That they sit, he and she, at a table made for three with three chairs, three settings, but they are only two of four that take up two chairs and all the air of that room. They feed each other slices of a winter fruit, almost frozen.
There is nothing more than a fingertip they share. They share more, if you believe more than that thing, the simple ruins of living rooms and coffee tables.
They share that word often, but neither of them is sure of the word, the delicate sound in a throat, the whispered air, the bottom breath of each other.
Tonight since a long time, they are they instead of each an other.
my galaxy is sorry
compatibility planetarium in time out, and how many people use that phrase? How many believe planetaria have relationships?
Give your customer a statement or go find a customer, 'cause you already have a statement, or one you've been working on for a customer of yours
Planetaria cost money to operate
words and paintin' might force you to become an expatriot
That's a thought
So this is not a thought less in this world
A full moon outlined by contrails in a mackerel sky . That is what Portland has this evening. The funny thing is, I just got a text message from Molly's dad and it read: "molly call us dad . . ." and then the number. I don't know Molly or her dad. But now I'm involved. And that's OK. It's something to write about.
Obviously, it was too good to pass up. It's not so good that I want to use it some place else, so I thought I'd put it here. It being Molly's Dad's message, this time.
Mapping figures of speech is like mapping tornados on the moon and I'm going to leave the rest of it up to you.
Gottblog?
Got chicken pot pie in the oven and that's literal.
Got mewling cat in the room.
Got dog on bed.
Got you.
This is true.
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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