i just came back from the supermarket,
just shy off the closing time:
ten minutes to eleven:
   that eleven prior to a midnight...

i bought a liter of *****,
a czech beer,
    and a lemon...

    in between i tired
of the impersonal cordiality
imitated by people
whenever: they somehow interact...

i think i bought the lemon
to **** on to **** off
that trite glum poke into
a window of a circus of
bones, marrow and fiddly bits
of muscle...

       oh how many times
that hello is more of a:
    yes, you again,
         can we just
press the mute button
on all of this?
               can we imitate
feeling awkward and...
   i feel...
            sometimes it would
be better to just...
   learn sign language...

I ("fist" with an extended pinky
finger: thumb visible)

   A ("fist", i.e.
    clenched index through
to pinky...
   and the thumb finger
  not hidden in the index
through to pinky finger fold)

   M ("paw" / crow's curled
claw...
                  fingers
  index through to pinky resting
a folded thumb
        hidden)

     F (king crimson -
in the court of the crimson king
album sleeve:
   showing the palm,
  with a folded index touching
a folded thumb: but not O.K.)

I (as above)

   N (fist, i.e.
the thumb finger poking its head
between the middle & ring finger)...

E ("paw" / crow's curled
claw...
                  fingers
  index through to pinky resting
a folded thumb
        exposed)

how does a boxing match look
like, for deaf people:
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
SSS­SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
SSSSSSSSSSSSSS­SSSSSSSSSSSS

anyways...
    sometimes:
                 i'd much prefer to
state a presence with
a language like: sign...

                  for the casual
encounters of the everyday
with a complete disregard for
that anglo-saxon
    acting out:
           an important role
of: me, the person buying
something,
and she: the auto-check-out
attendee,
needed to bypass
   the age check for buying
alcohol...

this was supposed to be some
grand-revelatory script...
  a day prior:
   Żubrówka:
  bison grass *****...

sure... but i remember times
when each bottle had
a shaft of grass in it...

   (but only with apple
juice)

it started to snow,
i almost forgot
that frank o'hara
  mentioned some
            pierre reverdy
in the poem
  a step away from them...

i turned on
queens of the stone age,
with the song auto-pilot
on repeat...
   (where's the promised
desert?!)

        for about 20 times...
hell: i'm the barbarian,
who doesn't need to hear
some variant of a Buddhist
mantra?

              it snowed some more...
and...
   i drank the remaining
bison grass ***** with
the apple juice...
   cut a slice of the lemon
and swam into 10cl of
russian standard *****
   with that:
glorious smile of
eternal sun: make us shine!

p.s. so that sort of
French art, i.e. a paragraph
poet?

      how's this?
how about:
   how i would never be
a painter
  because i thought it
impossible to spend money
on paint, canvases
and brushes...

   om-chapati-fucky-fucky-over-a-walkie-talkie-fidgety...
mantra like any other...
    
seems that:
i'm forgetting to endure
an ordeal of serious
care for anything,
with and prior to all this.