Nov 2013
But not putting on a show for every one. I can do it, just. A breath. Just, one click. Such an idiot eye didn't see it, placing seemed so obvious. I am made bone crushing kid, kung Fu Star Trek TV couch comfort wearing hats with streamers, long legged lemurs, dancing on rooftop decks, lace and bravado. I know trash cans, sit and lean and feel the thrower's pitch, apple-core, empty soda pop, paper bag, napkin, phone number. Am I calling too late? There is no twister only colorful dots to move my limbs to, my arms analyze my diction decisions, the directions my lips move, the sound of my troche and voice; for fear that I am pressing the pen too hard, or pursing my words- dude man boss miss, **** I got a get a grip. Just come over an stir it up. I mean ya.
And then but what, who's next? I need caffeine. I forget that I don't have problems pulling all nighter's fixated on your face, pretty legs, three songs, half-of-one for which you dislike- I listen to it anyways. I pull through. I want to be Public again, walk through ivory hallways, apart from deep mahoganies and iMacs, iSelf study my volition, is the volume, I mean, am I talking too loudly? The music, deep rolling conundrum Evil-Dub, evening study of steel guitar earth-toned arithmetic Danish-flavor rice wafer feed me your body and Christ!; Are my legs even moving(double punctuation, now there is happy fun day), I make mercy look like a wrist-squeezing game we played as children, my fingers raw with desire, overflowing with joy, dactyls filled with vitamins A, E, D, and M, I write another letter, the draft I set aside, the postage I stick to the package. Was it five CD's I said?
Star Wars I mean Luke and Leia crushing, struck by the garbage dump of swirled worlds combustible invincibility, immortal apostrophes and to-be-continueds, I made the cover of Newsweek you make my covers of time, I watch anything with a clock on it, does it live quickly or trap me slowly, crushing, moving inwards towards the heartbeat. What if I could also type integers and letters with my thumb upwards of double-ewe. Graze baby graze. Crshng out vowels from these fringe matters of future travels, this sidewalk want I wont, will even vaunt for. Am I flaunting for this, I pray not. He's My Brother, She's My Sister, let's get back to Twister, if you could just put your Left Foot there then I could skip the words and let my body tell you. Straighten out where I learned the hard way last summer. I'm woozy while you're telling me you're hitting the snooze button, and yet I'm asking you for four things, phrases, pages, a pace, number or persuasion. And I don't fear that if I told you how I know you, I am only unaware if I want you to know that I know you like I know you...phew!
Begin burn CD #6
And then but what, who's next? I need caffeine. I forget that I don't have problems pulling all nighter's fixated on your face, pretty legs, three songs, half-of-one for which you dislike- I listen to it anyways. I pull through. I want to be Public again, walk through ivory hallways, apart from deep mahoganies and iMacs, iSelf study my volition, is the volume, I mean, am I talking too loudly? The music, deep rolling conundrum Evil-Dub, evening study of steel guitar earth-toned arithmetic Danish-flavor rice wafer feed me your body and Christ!; Are my legs even moving(double punctuation, now there is happy fun day), I make mercy look like a wrist-squeezing game we played as children, my fingers raw with desire, overflowing with joy, dactyls filled with vitamins A, E, D, and M, I write another letter, the draft I set aside, the postage I stick to the package. Was it five CD's I said?
Star Wars I mean Luke and Leia crushing, struck by the garbage dump of swirled worlds combustible invincibility, immortal apostrophes and to-be-continueds, I made the cover of Newsweek you make my covers of time, I watch anything with a clock on it, does it live quickly or trap me slowly, crushing, moving inwards towards the heartbeat. What if I could also type integers and letters with my thumb upwards of double-ewe. Graze baby graze. Crshng out vowels from these fringe matters of future travels, this sidewalk want I wont, will even vaunt for. Am I flaunting for this, I pray not. He's My Brother, She's My Sister, let's get back to Twister, if you could just put your Left Foot there then I could skip the words and let my body tell you. Straighten out where I learned the hard way last summer. I'm woozy while you're telling me you're hitting the snooze button, and yet I'm asking you for four things, phrases, pages, a pace, number or persuasion. And I don't fear that if I told you how I know you, I am only unaware if I want you to know that I know you like I know you...phew!
Begin burn CD #6
Written after departing the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art where on the 2nd balcony after enjoying car rides, and hearing music, and texting and talking and drawing snack time parties in sidewalk chalk we had our first of many million tongue-twisting lips-on-lips, trysting; our wrists firm cradling the nape and the arc while they were leaning back and all I wanted to do was kiss you. So for Krispie, Kribstine, and Kristine Scolan. To whom I freshly did sew the subtly of our soft pink mouth pillows prying apart and out into the open to live together for 2 years, and wait to have *** for over a year since we first met and over five months from our first kiss. My body lists like a ship, buzzing into the conundrum humming of a whirlpool and tidal wave misbehaving. These were the Rolls Royce of moments important enough to hold the heavy steel toe to the gearshift and travel over the dashboard while having the nerve to flabbergast and lay aghastly staring into the sharp cloud shapes that at first March, grievance No. 2, Kristine I kissed you for the comfort of enlivening the fruit of my vines to froth oozily into your mouth, my thumbs trickling like nearly invisible incisors inside my skin and under interrogation. Loosely interviewing our emotions to remove the screws that diffuse the crude lucidity of being amused by the overly-anticipated excitement of loving @itskristine like we our two bodies formed under the unique conditions of human beings softening their urchins and sturgeons. Deep sea declarations in typeface and typography. Loving you with every ounce of my heart and greater and greater state of my stately step. And the enormous gratitude that comes at once from sleeping in the DNA sequencing of each subatomic and sequential step. Sipping slowly a little bit of Schwepps ginger ale, with bitter lime rind, getting supine before we intertwined stitching ourselves into the immense magnitude of being in love with someone else who practices youth like it was their responsibility to inchworm towards the aura of the moon, and have an all-nighter that sinks conflict into the weightless smooth cues of living with her on the moon.
(38/M/CA)
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