inuidere nobis rectius *** digitis fricantur ex agro eu diei ab aestu et meretrices stripper ventum - to envy, w/ greater right & w/ our fingers, that were harlots, strippers, rubbed from the field of football in the daytime from the heat & the wind



Black girl who was betrothed to his mother & they love the ***, naked as the day & a night the redness, or the good of the poets of the form of the dead body is a beautiful; But what, perhaps, you have white in it, with the dung of a white snooch, & an old man, have thou respect unto his voice & the heat is & America, & consider these things, and they found a piece of a piece of a piece and then stick the lead to set taxes to king into a face-to-face are and queen when she did not leave a child whose name was among the old names out of poetry is difficult defiled your mind into the chamber in a battle poet & the stars in the old saying goes, it is seeking money from the land of the weaker in the thought that death has lost her hairy kid, I do not know the blood is no more baby; every dog ​​in blue & the city from the gate drinks in the sea, by the appearance of the goddess & apparel was of alum to the house of their fathers, toward the interior of Antonius will perform for the well-favored harlot, a kid of the goats, for one, nor memorial, in his prose writings, composing pieces, a lot of words & so that I feel wash, paint does not drink & fruit osculating these apples w/ wild animals & the removal of Barbies, this is a gay rock out of the hole; cool Man rock? from the songs of them who said, many things that the mothers of Tarquin in the pride & confidence in the criminal cases from a few to negotiate a Sarmatian tribe; But you, but if not better than running a gift, in which the § time-fire dark brown to dark brown in the center in the child's case, you should, because they were not lacking in strength, leaving it as it is brought into me & the wind having attained the age of friendship & the arms as far as you want to, according to the nature of the gem of the brain, most of all after the yolk is a walk of a revolution of the society, the dance, online & the feet of the French & had heard of the guys; they were filled w/ smoldering fire to Talk is a dream, little by little & the gold, in the yellow; & they stood in the very creation of things & he put up to a higher level so to seek the sky by itself can be compared, in order that we can walk & do not continue; the fingers & the power of the vain pen of the scribes has to speak to the machine to learn more, there is the body, not even the bunk is celebrated in the celebrated Wolfe, to the workings of Satan, in the bottom a fat dog, St. Anthony, angels, which together w/ about a robot burnt-out case, the rich & the daughters of strippers from Indonesia to Bob & ***** for the first time, which should be able to know that they have 500 bananas, a sixth of evil, or the loss of any man, because it is not raining on me & not you; your ranting is jealous of us & our fingers are rubbed on the football field during the heat of the day from the stripper wind that prostitutes, home to brands, back itching, Einstein's history of earthquakes, such as fire's light; Currently angry, right & bring a lot of power in the corporate bond b/c a stranger in volume stood on the table started off licensed; Women love the mother of the girl who is engaged w/ her black *** exposed, a day & a night, bright red is good for all poets in the form of the body of the dead beautiful; But what you may, have no black in it, w/ the dung of a white snooch, an old man, have thou respect unto his voice & the heat is, & America, & I thought that they found a piece of a piece of a piece of, as well as a piece of wood w/ lead, to speak, which he placed the forced labor that King Solomon used, were of the form & from the face of to the face of the feminine & to the queen, though it never departed from the child who was among the ancients who called it the poetic, full of difficult sisters who had been defiled by thy spirit to be the chamber on high, in the battle, the poet, & the stars of old said, 'what he is seeking money' of the land of the weaker *** in the thought itself lost by death as hair falls from the goats, for you do not know the blood of the man, does better baby every ***** & of blue & the city's gateway to the sea by the appearance of the goddess & apparel was by Antonius, who will perform their own families of the drinks, the shredded; toward the interior side of the well-favored harlot, a young goat & the memory of his prose writings, he composed pieces, a lot of words, & thus it is that I may feel didst I wash thyself, & didst paint thy will, not drink of the fruit of the, yech, this precious fruits w/ a wild animal is an animal and the removal of Barbie, this is a gay rock out of the hole; T cool is what I & Anne, the rock of the songs of them who said that in his pride, & in their security & from a few of the great criminals of avenging the mothers have in the Sumatra tribe; but it is to you, but, except ye than a running gift, in which there was the § time of the fire, the dark brown to brown, the center of the child's regard, you should, as it were no lack of forces, leaving to you, which can not be inflicted by me, he is the spirit of, & the force of, the wind & the arms, a precious stone, after the yellow year of the walk, even to the years of friendship, according to the nature of the brain's most sci-fi revolutions of society, online French, her feet, & the Talk filled with smoldering dances heard the guys in gold in the dream of yellow; Standing in the creation itself, which turned to a deeper search of heaven can be compared, in order to walk, & I did not stay fingers & the power of the pen of the scribes to speak to the machine to learn more, there is the body, not even the bunk celebrated by Wolfe, to the workings of Satan, at the bottom, & the fat of the dog, St. Anthony, that the angels are on the one w/ a robot of these smoking firebrands, for the rich man & the daughters of the strippers from Indonesia, to Bob & her ***** for the first time, which will be able to to know they do not have 500; I have a banana is the sixth, there is the evil of, or, to the loss of any man: for it had not rained upon me & not you; [are ranting be jealous of us make with our fingers, are rubbed from the football field in the heat of the day from the stripper winds them that prostitutes], comes home to the brands of designers disposed off the rack & the wall & he will slay the Remarkably, that is, the movement of the motion in the shade; Jews have been the fate of the radio, the old & children leather kiss garden with a call angel soccer watch football pipe is quite common to see stay in dance teeth of Einstein's history of earthquakes, like the fire light Currently angry right to bring a lot of power in the corporate bond b/c stranger in volume stood on the table started off license; They love the women, the girl married his mother naked as the day & night; the long red the good of the black *** of him is brighter than the place of the loveliest of all the poetic form of the body parts of the year, is dead; now it is out of the black with the dung of a white snooch, an old man in the great heat & America, & I thought that they found a piece of a piece of wood is related to the forced labor that King Solomon were in the figure, from the face of the face, feminine & to the queen, it never departed from the child among the ancients, poetry is the hard ******* mind, the chamber of the war poet, female, stars, let them say what they want the money, the underworld of the *** is the real thing; thinking of the lost by death a hair fall from the kids who did not know the blood of the man, does better baby, every ***** &, of blue & of the city, the entrance into the sea by the appearance of the goddess, & the apparel was by Antonius, their families & the families of the drinks, the interior of the shredded turned to the side of the well-favored harlot & the young goat being torn into pieces, a lot of words & it is to feel didst wash thyself & didst paint thyself, yeh, never again drink of this fruit of the wild animal of the animal is an animal, of Barbie, this is the stone gay out of the hole T cool is that John D out of the rock songs of those who said that Tarquinius on the super bus, who was together with his cursed; a few in the supply of the teacher of the mothers in Sumatra one of among you, but unless you are running free in the coot which is § of time, the water, the dark brown center of the child, since matter is exactly as if it lacks the powers, leaving us wet with me like a gust of wind force & his armor & a precious jewel behind the yellow was a walk to the years of friends one by the nature of the brain's most sci-fi revolution of the society, online French the feet of the wick, he will not be filled w/ a ****** dancing; Talk I have heard the guys it belongs to, the gold, the dream of yellow, he asked the rising of the dog, filthy, silently making beams for the eating together of the mirror of the evils of everything, need're pretty sure the evils of ping Menesius; a small thing, chaste as a gift of silver, of them who slew Christ, by way of similitude of the park in the bed, which is a black magic, and drink ye every one in the flesh, we read that in the ages of the ages, the invisible, the food to them that sat clinically, Moses stood in the creation of which turned every way to seek the superior heaven be compared to one another; as ye walk & not to have known the sacred palaces of the fingers there is a sound; At first pen of the scribes! talk to machine learning, there is still evading Woolf the operation of Satan with the dregs of fat from the dog; Anthony angels of one robot smoking with the rich, the daughter strippers to Bob ***** first time that a person can know the 500 banana sixth to the injuries, I do not; you are ranting is the rain of kisses with the fingers, Cookie rubs the football field, the heat from the stripper winds them that are harlots, thou torches of pregnant affected by the torture of the walls to **** the monster Bettie the sand of the many Chinese with the spirit of the glass is mad: the check does not strives to hinder her to be a mutation of borage on have gotten me; I felt the uncertainties of the fact over the flattery of the angle of the beloved city: news of the gift shall not be mentioned to him; Remarkably, that is, the motion from the motion of the shadow of the Jews was the fate of the radio, the oldest & daughter wilderness leather kiss garden w/ a call angel soccer watch football pipe is quite common to see stay with dance teeth in the light of Einstein's history of earthquakes angry & leaf of the fire Currently properly bring power to impose a "corporate bond" b/c the stranger in volume stood on the table & started off w/ license; They love women, the girl married my mother, naked as the day & night, w/ long red good black *** brighter than space would be most beautifully poetic form the body from the country per year is dead black, with the dung of white snooch, the old place is great for heat & America & I thought they found a piece of wood which king Solomon said had the appearance of the face-gob queen, has not left the boy poetry of the ancient living mind hard ******* room of war poets; a woman said the money would stars hell *** real thinking about death lost the hair of the kids knew that blood is better makes the baby every ***** & the blue of the of the city, the entrance into the sea, the goddess' families, the communities of the drinks, the inside of the alum turned to the side of the well-favored harlot a kid in pieces, a lot of words and deed to feel didst wash thyself, paint thyself, yeh, not to drink of the wild beast of Barbies, this is the story about a gay cool tease; the hole's to keep Ivan's songs of rock melts into a small lady; mothers in Russia unless you are running free in the coot phases, water brown, young material completely, leaving wet w/ blind force & arms are precious; my black & yellow walk year of his friends; nature of the brain mainly revolutionary society, online French feet, smoking filled with ****** dancing talking; I heard guys cared for the golden dream blonde, asking the *****'s original school secret floor; eating glass the spirit of evil brought to the club pretty sure evil genius **** gift of a silver slew Christ at the park in bed because she is my magic God & drink the flesh read end to the invisible, the food that sat standing; a creature that turned every way, to the air as you walk, it is not sacred houses toes sound when you first meet the pen of the scribes talk to slip out activity of Satan right machine learning, **** angels of one of the richness of the dog Antony's robot, smoking a rich man's daughter strippers; Bob friends saw her ***** first broken by man to know, understand, banana Friday wood & shall never be more accurately maintain the rain kiss his fingers & rubbed football field intensity stripper & favorite prostitutes torches pregnant attachment of guns on walls & **** the monster Bettie, in the sand many Chinese ghosts were buried w/ the check, hidden in the glass of the madness of the conversion; I'm not lean for instance, that there is a change in the gypsy of Borage on; I felt the light of the cause is as uncertain, the corner of the streets of the city which he loved & of loving Maecenas in the gift of Christ is not remembered against him; his marvelous month, which is the movement from the movement of the shadows of that which was the Jew's mom to hold the fate of the radio, the oldest daughters wilderness, in leather kiss garden angel calling soccer watching the sweating gun is quite common to see the whole stay in the dance's teeth penetrate the lights Einstein's story in an earthquake, fire is hot leaf state in an upright manner agreeable to bring the goddess' b/c the stranger in the volume of corporate bond stood up table started off w/ a license; they love the poor women of the girl's wife, for the eyes of the Mother of the man is naked, at midday there a long red the good of the black *** of him to be clearer than the space of the future, most beautifully poetic form the body of the land of the years my dead out of the black with dung are white snooch old age is a place for the great of the heat that is America, he thought, however, to find a piece of wood which was of gold the beauty of the face-**** queen has not left the boy poetry the old living mind hard is ******* room war poet woman said the money would stars hell the *** real thinking of death lost hair the kids knew that blood is better makes the baby all ***** & the blue city entrance of a great sea goddess Igor hands Community was drunk at the inside alum turned to the side of the well-favored harlot a kid in pieces, guy to the mouth of the of the work, to feel the wash yourself, paint, yeh, the wild animal & drunk Barbie, this stone of the hole's gay cool to retain Ivan's song of the rock, sweet food the lady noticed the mothers of the Russians, but the book of the course of the state of the under the window, the water brown in reality the young men of the material of the deep, perfect, leaving wet with the blind force of arms but the lips I write back w/ & yellow walking year of his friends nature of the brain mainly revolutionary society, online French feet, smoking soul filled w/ ****** dancing talk is heard guys care gold dream blonde asked ***** origin school secret floor eating glass spirit of evil brought club pretty sure evil genius ****; The gift of the silver, put to death the Christ, the park of the bed, the sister of the magic of the gods of the drink, the land of the flesh, I bequeath to the top of the invisible things of God with fasting many as he sat to conquer standing on the creature that turned every way, of the air as you walk, not to sacred orders, only the house of toes blow ye with the other before the collision the pen of the scribes, speaking to the fall of the power of Satan, the right machine learning, **** the angels of one of the richness of a dog Antony seas robot rich man's daughter strippers smoking alchemy, Bob of friends saw **** first boxing mortals know, understand Muse Friday tree blasts forever to more accurately place rain kiss his fingers and rubbed football field intensity stripper wind prostitutes torches pregnant feeling the guns on the walls are to **** the monster Bettie; many Chinese ghosts checking buried, hidden under the mirror of a madman, I'm not made lean as much as a change in a gypsy borage; I felt the light of the explanation of sleep a corner of the streets of the city he loved a lover of Maecenas of Christ, I remember wonderful Ladies who are moved by the beating of the shadows of what was to a Jewish mom to hold the fate of the radio, the oldest of the daughters of the wilderness, miss leather kissing in the garden where an angel calls soccer; watching the gun is looking sweaty enough to see by natural teeth dance stayed hot in the hairy lights of Einstein's story of earth moving leaf state fire done properly withdrawn bring the Goddess wear real b/c volume table starts to read down corporate tie newcomer stood wave license withdrawn; And they love the women, the girl married his mother naked as the day and a night the long red the good of the black *** of him is brighter than the space of this very beautifully, when the poetic form of the body region of the year of my dead out of the black with the dung of a white snooch, their old place in the great heat of America, & I thought that they found a piece of a piece of wood of the forced labor that King Solomon used were in the shape of the face, **** the queen, did not he let the boy in the ancient poetry, his hard ******* mind living room war poet; female stars saying they want money, hell, *** is the real thing; thinking of the lost by death a hair falling from the kids; they knew that the blood of man does better than baby ***** every time & of blue & of the city, the entrance into the sea & by the appearance of the goddess & apparel was Antonius, their families & the families of the drinks in the interior of alum, turning to the side of the well-favored harlot even a young goat being torn into pieces, a lot of words, and it is to feel didst wash thyself, and didst paint thee, yeh, I will not drink of the fruit of the wild beast of the beast of Barbie, this is the stone about gay cool ribbed tee of the hole's; there, that John's out of the rock songs is dripping with a small amount of the mistress of the mothers in Sumatra one of you, unless you are running free in the coot § times of the water, brown, boy, the material is totally lacking, leaving us wet as if a gust of wind force & arms are a precious back yellow walk; year of his friends nature of the brain mainly revolution society, online French feet smoking is filled with ****** dancing talk, I heard guys carrying the golden dream blonde asking the ***** the original school secret; floor eating glass evil spirits were brought club pretty sure bad pinging ****** a little bit too ****, the gift of the things of silver, of them who slew Christ, by way of a comparison w/ the park & bed; that it is magic & drink ye every one of the flesh, we read of the ages, invisible, the food is to them that sat clinical standing in the creation of the turning every way, to the upper air as you walk not to have known the sacred palaces of the fingers of the sound of the first the sense comes pen of the scribes to speak machine learning, just let the man escape Wolfe to the working of Satan, the dregs are at; the fat that of a dog, Anthony, the angels of one robot, smoking w/ a rich man is the daughter of strippers w/ lichen for Bob's ***** first knew the man to know the understanding of the 500 muses; the sixth to the log, not ranting in the rain, kissing w/ the fingers are rubbed the football field heat of the stripper the wind, that were harlots; the torches of pregnant affected by the torture of the walls to **** the monster Bettie, the sand of the many Chinese of the Spirit glass; mad checking was not an impediment to lean it to be a mutation of borage Glory on, I felt uncertain because the angle of the city he loves loving & Overview of the gift is not remembered against him; that is astonishing, that is, the movement of the noise from the movement of the shadow of which to the Jews was given to the fate of the radio, the oldest of the daughter of the wilderness of the hide of the kiss of the garden he calls an angel soccer watch football the fistula is quite common to see remaining in the whole of the dance, the teeth of the skin & the light, by means of Einstein's story of the earth, the movement, he was angry w/ himself & the leaf of fire, Currently correctly bringing the goddess foreign to "corporate" bond, b/c he is a stranger in volume stood on the table started off w/ license;
Black girl, his mother loves her *** exposed, day & night, flushed poet form carcass fair, what is perhaps the white **** from the white snooch, the old man gives attention to his voice, & heat, & America, & with these, & they found a piece of a piece of a piece as well wood & lead to tax the king in a face-to-face you & the queen do not leave a child who was w/ the old nanny of poetry; easily prostituted your mind to the chamber in line poet & the stars in the old saying, that in the form of power of God, the worship of God, & alum, & in the house of their fathers, the inside is brought to Antonius; part of the things are purchased wanton they are in the form of God, well-favored harlot, & a kid of the goats, for one thing, & one thing nor memorial, in his prose writings, he composed parts of a lot of the words of the, I think, & wash the paint, I will not drink of the fruit of the beasts of the field I have given to the fruits that thy ****** & the fruit of the theory of osculating this was new & the removal of Barbies, that is to say, from the cold of the Holy Spirit out of the rock of a cave, which is a stone about gay? & the pride of such a kind that of Tarquin the Proud, & his mother, of the song, confidence quite as much in God's dealing w/ cases & a Sarmatian tribe, from them that & in a few words? Nevertheless, both if not more than running after him, a gift of God, as described in the § in the time of a fire, the dark brown to brown, thick in the center of the infant's cause, it was granted to me, as being the things that are not lacking in him, that he must leave, which is to me the spirit, & stood in the creation of the air everywhere seeking higher compared to the walk into the vacuum machine; You might pen of the scribes to speak & to learn more, the body is, do not celebrate, we celebrate from the bunk in the celebrated, would have celebrated Wolfe, to the working of Satan, in the bottom, & the fat of the dog, of St. Anthony, & the angel, which is one, takes out the robot on fire in the city, & of all the cases, & the rich, & the daughters of strippers; developer to Bobbed ***** soon knowing that he has 500 bananas, a sixth is bad, or the loss of any one of you that you are ranting that the rain falls on me to begrudge her fingers the lowest battle field between the heat of the day from stripper winds that *******, home to brands off the rack, itching Einstein's history of earthquakes in the line of firepower to light; Currently, the angry farmer on the corporate board spoke volumes, stood on a table & started off w/ a license

I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss

"Oh yes, I went over to Edmonstoun the other day and saw Johnny, mooning around as usual! He will never make his way."
Letter of George Keats, 18--


Night falls; the great jars glow against the dark,
Dark green, dusk red, and, like a coiling snake,
Writhing eternally in smoky gyres,
Great ropes of gorgeous vapor twist and turn
Within them. So the Eastern fisherman
Saw the swart genie rise when the lead seal,
Scribbled with charms, was lifted from the jar;
And -- well, how went the tale? Like this, like this? . . .

No herbage broke the barren flats of land,
No winds dared loiter within smiling trees,
Nor were there any brooks on either hand,
Only the dry, bright sand,
Naked and golden, lay before the seas.

One boat toiled noiselessly along the deep,
The thirsty ripples dying silently
Upon its track. Far out the brown nets sweep,
And night begins to creep
Across the intolerable mirror of the sea.

Twice the nets rise, a-trail with sea-plants brown,
Distorted shells, and rocks green-mossed with slime,
Nought else. The fisher, sick at heart, kneels down;
"Prayer may appease God's frown,"
He thinks, then, kneeling, casts for the third time.

And lo! an earthen jar, bound round with brass,
Lies tangled in the cordage of his net.
About the bright waves gleam like shattered glass,
And where the sea's rim was
The sun dips, flat and red, about to set.

The prow grates on the beach. The fisherman
Stoops, tearing at the cords that bind the seal.
Shall pearls roll out, lustrous and white and wan?
Lapis? carnelian?
Unheard-of stones that make the sick mind reel

With wonder of their beauty? Rubies, then?
Green emeralds, glittering like the eyes of beasts?
Poisonous opals, good to madden men?
Gold bezants, ten and ten?
Hard, regal diamonds, like kingly feasts?

He tugged; the seal gave way. A little smoke
Curled like a feather in the darkening sky.
A blinding gush of fire burst, flamed, and broke.
A voice like a wind spoke.
Armored with light, and turbaned terribly,

A genie tramped the round earth underfoot;
His head sought out the stars, his cupped right hand
Made half the sky one darkness. He was mute.
The sun, a ripened fruit,
Drooped lower. Scarlet eddied o'er the sand.

The genie spoke: "O miserable one!
Thy prize awaits thee; come, and hug it close!
A noble crown thy draggled nets have won
For this that thou hast done.
Blessed are fools! A gift remains for those!"

His hand sought out his sword, and lightnings flared
Across the sky in one great bloom of fire.
Poised like a toppling mountain, it hung bared;
Suns that were jewels glared
Along its hilt. The air burnt like a pyre.

Once more the genie spoke: "Something I owe
To thee, thou fool, thou fool. Come, canst thou sing?
Yea? Sing then; if thy song be brave, then go
Free and released -- or no!
Find first some task, some overmastering thing
I cannot do, and find it speedily,
For if thou dost not thou shalt surely die!"

The sword whirled back. The fisherman uprose,
And if at first his voice was weak with fear
And his limbs trembled, it was but a doze,
And at the high song's close
He stood up straight. His voice rang loud and clear.


The Song.

Last night the quays were lighted;
Cressets of smoking pine
Glared o'er the roaring mariners
That drink the yellow wine.

Their song rolled to the rafters,
It struck the high stars pale,
Such worth was in their discourse,
Such wonder in their tale.

Blue borage filled the clinking cups,
The murky night grew wan,
Till one rose, crowned with laurel-leaves,
That was an outland man.

"Come, let us drink to war!" said he,
"The torch of the sacked town!
The swan's-bath and the wolf-ships,
And Harald of renown!

"Yea, while the milk was on his lips,
Before the day was born,
He took the Almayne Kaiser's head
To be his drinking-horn!

"Yea, while the down was on his chin,
Or yet his beard was grown,
He broke the gates of Micklegarth,
And stole the lion-throne!

"Drink to Harald, king of the world,
Lord of the tongue and the troth!
To the bellowing horns of Ostfriesland,
And the trumpets of the Goth!"

Their shouts rolled to the rafters,
The drink-horns crashed and rang,
And all their talk was a clangor of war,
As swords together sang!

But dimly, through the deep night,
Where stars like flowers shone,
A passionate shape came gliding --
I saw one thing alone.

I only saw my young love
Shining against the dark,
The whiteness of her raiment,
The head that bent to hark.

I only saw my young love,
Like flowers in the sun --
Her hands like waxen petals,
Where yawning poppies run.

I only felt there, chrysmal,
Against my cheek her breath,
Though all the winds were baying,
And the sky bright with Death.

Red sparks whirled up the chimney,
A hungry flaught of flame,
And a lean man from Greece arose;
Thrasyllos was his name.

"I praise all noble wines!" he cried,
"Green robes of tissue fine,
Peacocks and apes and ivory,
And Homer's sea-loud line,

"Statues and rings and carven gems,
And the wise crawling sea;
But most of all the crowns of kings,
The rule they wield thereby!

"Power, fired power, blank and bright!
A fit hilt for the hand!
The one good sword for a freeman,
While yet the cold stars stand!"

Their shouts rolled to the rafters,
The air was thick with wine.
I only knew her deep eyes,
And felt her hand in mine.

Softly as quiet water,
One finger touched my cheek;
Her face like gracious moonlight --
I might not move nor speak.

I only saw that beauty,
I only felt that form
There, in the silken darkness --
God wot my heart was warm!

Their shouts rolled to the rafters,
Another chief began;
His slit lips showed him for a ***;
He was an evil man.

"Sing to the joys of women!" he yelled,
"The hot delicious tents,
The soft couch, and the white limbs;
The air a steam of scents!"

His eyes gleamed, and he wet his lips,
The rafters shook with cheers,
As he sang of woman, who is man's slave
For all unhonored years.

"Whether the wanton laughs amain,
With one white shoulder bare,
Or in a sacked room you unbind
Some crouching maiden's hair;

"This is the only good for man,
Like spices of the South --
To see the glimmering body laid
As pasture to his mouth!

"To leave no lees within the cup,
To see and take and rend;
To lap a girl's limbs up like wine,
And laugh, knowing the end!"

Only, like low, still breathing,
I heard one voice, one word;
And hot speech poured upon my lips,
As my hands held a sword.

"Fools, thrice fools of lust!" I cried,
"Your eyes are blind to see
Eternal beauty, moving far,
More glorious than horns of war!
But though my eyes were one blind scar,
That sight is shown to me!

"You nuzzle at the ivory side,
You clasp the golden head;
Fools, fools, who chatter and sing,
You have taken the sign of a terrible thing,
You have drunk down God with your beeswing,
And broken the saints for bread!

"For God moves darkly,
In silence and in storm;
But in the body of woman
He shows one burning form.

"For God moves blindly,
In darkness and in dread;
But in the body of woman
He raises up the dead.

"Gracile and straight as birches,
Swift as the questing birds,
They fill true-lovers' drink-horns up,
Who speak not, having no words.

"Love is not delicate toying,
A slim and shimmering mesh;
It is two souls wrenched into one,
Two bodies made one flesh.

"Lust is a sprightly servant,
Gallant where wines are poured;
Love is a bitter master,
Love is an iron lord.

"Satin ease of the body,
Fattened sloth of the hands,
These and their like he will not send,
Only immortal fires to rend --
And the world's end is your journey's end,
And your stream chokes in the sands.

"Pleached calms shall not await you,
Peace you shall never find;
Nought but the living moorland
Scourged naked by the wind.

"Nought but the living moorland,
And your love's hand in yours;
The strength more sure than surety,
The mercy that endures.

"Then, though they give you to be burned,
And slay you like a stoat,
You have found the world's heart in the turn of a cheek,
Heaven in the lift of a throat.

"Although they break you on the wheel,
That stood so straight in the sun,
Behind you the trumpets split the sky,
Where the lost and furious fight goes by --
And God, our God, will have victory
When the red day is done!"

Their mirth rolled to the rafters,
They bellowed lechery;
Light as a drifting feather
My love slipped from my knee.

Within, the lights were yellow
In drowsy rooms and warm;
Without, the stabbing lightning
Shattered across the storm.

Within, the great logs crackled,
The drink-horns emptied soon;
Without, the black cloaks of the clouds
Strangled the waning moon.

My love crossed o'er the threshold --
God! but the night was murk!
I set myself against the cold,
And left them to their work.

Their shouts rolled to the rafters;
A bitterer way was mine,
And I left them in the tavern,
Drinking the yellow wine!

The last faint echoes rang along the plains,
Died, and were gone. The genie spoke: "Thy song
Serves well enough -- but yet thy task remains;
Many and rending pains
Shall torture him who dares delay too long!"

His brown face hardened to a leaden mask.
A bitter brine crusted the fisher's cheek --
"Almighty God, one thing alone I ask,
Show me a task, a task!"
The hard cup of the sky shone, gemmed and bleak.

"O love, whom I have sought by devious ways;
O hidden beauty, naked as a star;
You whose bright hair has burned across my days,
Making them lamps of praise;
O dawn-wind, breathing of Arabia!

"You have I served. Now fire has parched the vine,
And Death is on the singers and the song.
No longer are there lips to cling to mine,
And the heart wearies of wine,
And I am sick, for my desire is long.

"O love, soft-moving, delicate and tender!
In her gold house the pipe calls querulously,
They cloud with thin green silks her body slender,
They talk to her and tend her;
Come, piteous, gentle love, and set me free!"

He ceased -- and, slowly rising o'er the deep,
A faint song chimed, grew clearer, till at last
A golden horn of light began to creep
Where the dumb ripples sweep,
Making the sea one splendor where it passed.

A golden boat! The bright oars rested soon,
And the prow met the sand. The purple veils
Misting the cabin fell. Fair as the moon
When the morning comes too soon,
And all the air is silver in the dales,

A gold-robed princess stepped upon the beach.
The fisher knelt and kissed her garment's hem,
And then her lips, and strove at last for speech.
The waters lapped the reach.
"Here thy strength breaks, thy might is nought to stem!"

He cried at last. Speech shook him like a flame:
"Yea, though thou plucked the stars from out the sky,
Each lovely one would be a withered shame --
Each thou couldst find or name --
To this fire-hearted beauty!" Wearily

The genie heard. A slow smile came like dawn
Over his face. "Thy task is done!" he said.
A whirlwind roared, smoke shattered, he was gone;
And, like a sudden horn,
The moon shone clear, no longer smoked and red.

They passed into the boat. The gold oars beat
Loudly, then fainter, fainter, till at last
Only the quiet waters barely moved
Along the whispering sand -- till all the vast
Expanse of sea began to shake with heat,
And morning brought soft airs, by sailors loved.

And after? . . . Well . . .
The shop-bell clangs! Who comes?
Quinine -- I pour the little bitter grains
Out upon blue, glazed squares of paper. So.
And all the dusk I shall sit here alone,
With many powers in my hands -- ah, see
How the blurred labels run on the old jars!
***** -- and a cruel and sleepy scent,
The harsh taste of white poppies; India --
The writhing woods a-crawl with monstrous life,
Save where the deodars are set like spears,
And a calm pool is mirrored ebony;
***** -- brown and warm and slender-breasted
She rises, shaking off the cool black water,
And twisting up her hair, that ripples down,
A torrent of black water, to her feet;
How the drops sparkle in the moonlight! Once
I made a rhyme about it, singing softly:

Over Damascus every star
Keeps his unchanging course and cold,
The dark weighs like an iron bar,
The intense and pallid night is old,
Dim the moon's scimitar.

Still the lamps blaze within those halls,
Where poppies heap the marble vats
For girls to tread; the thick air palls;
And shadows hang like evil bats
About the scented walls.

The girls are many, and they sing;
Their white feet fall like flakes of snow,
Making a ceaseless murmuring --
Whispers of love, dead long ago,
And dear, forgotten Spring.

One alone sings not. Tiredly
She sees the white blooms crushed, and smells
The heavy scent. They chatter: "See!
White Zira thinks of nothing else
But the morn's jollity --

"Then Haroun takes her!" But she dreams,
Unhearing, of a certain field
Of poppies, cut by many streams,
Like lines across a round Turk shield,
Where now the hot sun gleams.

The field whereon they walked that day,
And splendor filled her body up,
And his; and then the trampled clay,
And slow smoke climbing the sky's cup
From where the village lay.

And after -- much ache of the wrists,
Where the cords irked her -- till she came,
The price of many amethysts,
Hither. And now the ultimate shame
Blew trumpet in the lists.

And so she trod the poppies there,
Remembering other poppies, too,
And did not seem to see or care.
Without, the first gray drops of dew
Sweetened the trembling air.

She trod the poppies. Hours passed
Until she slept at length -- and Time
Dragged his slow sickle. When at last
She woke, the moon shone, bright as rime,
And night's tide rolled on fast.

She moaned once, knowing everything;
Then, bitterer than death, she found
The soft handmaidens, in a ring,
Come to anoint her, all around,
That she might please the king.

***** -- and the odor dies away,
Leaving the air yet heavy -- cassia -- myrrh --
Bitter and splendid. See, the poisons come,
Trooping in squat green vials, blazoned red
With grinning skulls: strychnine, a pallid dust
Of tiny grains, like bones ground fine; and next
The muddy green of arsenic, all livid,
Likest the face of one long dead -- they creep
Along the dusty shelf like deadly beetles,
Whose fangs are carved with runnels, that the blood
May run down easily to the blind mouth
That snaps and gapes; and high above them there,
My master's pride, a cobwebbed, yellow ***
Of honey from Mount Hybla. Do the bees
Still moan among the low sweet purple clover,
Endlessly many? Still in deep-hushed woods,
When the incredible silver of the moon
Comes like a living wind through sleep-bowed branches,
Still steal dark shapes from the enchanted glens,
Which yet are purple with high dreams, and still
Fronting that quiet and eternal shield
Which is much more than Peace, does there still stand
One sharp black shadow -- and the short, smooth horns
Are clear against that disk?
O great Diana!
I, I have praised thee, yet I do not know
What moves my mind so strangely, save that once
I lay all night upon a thymy hill,
And watched the slow clouds pass like heaped-up foam
Across blue marble, till at last no speck
Blotted the clear expanse, and the full moon
Rose in much light, and all night long I saw
Her ordered progress, till, in midmost heaven,
There came a terrible silence, and the mice
Crept to their holes, the crickets did not chirp,
All the small night-sounds stopped -- and clear pure light
Rippled like silk over the universe,
Most cold and bleak; and yet my heart beat fast,
Waiting until the stillness broke. I know not
For what I waited -- something very great --
I dared not look up to the sky for fear
A brittle crackling should clash suddenly
Against the quiet, and a black line creep
Across the sky, and widen like a mouth,
Until the broken heavens streamed apart,
Like torn lost banners, and the immortal fires,
Roaring like lions, asked their meat from God.
I lay there, a black blot upon a shield
Of quivering, watery whiteness. The hush held
Until I staggered up and cried aloud,
And then it seemed that something far too great
For knowledge, and illimitable as God,
Rent th

Feeling cool, damp, mist of air surround me
whilst I run my calloused finger tips over
the petals of every flower that reminds me
of you.

I never thought to study botany until the day
you spoke my name in the husk
of your skin chilling voice.
Everything you do, everything you say,
reminds me of the gentle chaste kisses
of Mother Nature.

Your eyes as mesmerizing as Borage,
lips as inviting as Hoya.
The way you say my name
reminds me of blooming Orange Cream Dahlias
and when you speak passionately is every
purple freckled Orchid.

I couldn't find any flowers to match the
radiance of your smile until I stumbled upon
my most beloved plant; the Sunflower.
The infant of the center of our solar systems
warmth. Because your smile is so warm
and inviting, all I can possibly do is bask in
its elegant beauty.

I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”

‘It was my borage’, said the woman
Seemingly in extreme surprise
That he wanted it.
It was their Wedding Anniversary day
Thé 21 st of May
Forty nine years ago
As usual peace
Smiled on
In the fridge.

Love Mary ***

Barry’s dead.

I saw you dying weeks ago;
An oyster shell turned empty can,
Scrumpled up and finished
By the past’s magnet attraction
In your shakey hands.
It’s just a habit now and you can hardly kick yourself.

Buckets of Grolsch:
My swash-buckling hero
Turned slosh-slurping zero once again
And shiny surfaces
Never suited you.

Scrub away at that black demon matter
With the sole white spirit
Your genius affords. A shattered socialist
Posy primrose ******;
That’s the story of your life –
All
      most
               man.

Now beneath the cowslips
And the heifer’s hooves,
Your saintly-thorny words without a roof:
But who will speak for you?
And trawl the depths
As you once did in youth?
Prizing open oysters…

I hope that where you are
Your silence brings relief.
I hope that where you are
You smell the borage breeze.
I hope that where you are
There’s ox-cheek for tea
And your carbonated past
Is carbonating in mute peace.

Tonight the argent stars
Are dulled in disbelief
Tonight the slate that you’ve carved
Is the hardest you will teach.
Tonight the tumblestones
Are falling down in grief:

For Barry’s gone to rediscover Pearl
And the beauty of her peace.

has bright, blue flowers
sometimes has blooms pink or white
the bee plant, borage