today i learned that a friend of mine was nearly tickled by death in a terrorist excavation of bones in Brussels, with jean-claude van damme included in the action sequence - although without stunt artists, by god, that's the second ******* my list of near encounters with death and a permanence of tombstones; i took four beers for a walk trying to gather dogs' tears along the way... if she was only worth blowing myself up i would, she wasn't - because, i mean, is this a 72-get-together asking about circumcision and contraception, and is the niqab an over-sized ******?! in the supermarket jokes, me with my long hair tied into a samurai's bun of a seashell, she with her hijab... i didn't get the joke either... i said i wrote poetry for friends, and yes, i've become a so-called milk carton at the supermarket - the expected, shelved - first they asked for my name, then what i did, matthew, poet... well you've got the cheapest bottles of whiskey around here, of course i'll testify to a religiosity of having to repeat purchase... d'uh! still, jean-claude van damme and those four cans of beer... the dogs salivated more than wept: so i collected saliva rather than salt drops, of what could have suckled dry a field readied for a harvesting of potatoes.