"improvise" poems
the flowers in your hair
are not fortunate enough to meet your eyes
instead they only ever sit on your head
and improvise
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
*With one old roller skate
I'd be out to play
The local boys
Would stay all day
Remove the straps
You’re left with a chassis
Then an old Beano book
It looked real classy
Now to the longest bank
Only one car a day
Place the book on top
We’re on our way
Sitting low legs outstretched
Leaning back the race begins
Round the corner leaning to the side
Riding our skateboards with pride
No designer logo
Or high speed wheels
To come to a stop
We used our heels
Those summer days we were young
Happy children having fun
It cost not a penny to improvise
One old skate with a book the right size
It's quite sad to see
All the waste today
Expensive toys
Just thrown away*
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
Here in America,
we improvise morgues
as needed.
in the cafeterias
or by the lockers,
near the ticket booths,
and at the altars.
We divvy up the dead.
Tally them
and report the number
like an answer.
13, 20, 49, 58, 6
Every death count
a timely national shock.
Almost as if
our well-televised
monthly tragedy
was ever anything less
than a game of roulette.
anything less than a matter of time
and time and time again.
Covering them each
with our bed sheets,
we try and stifle it.
Do our best to
staunch the the sights,
the noises,
(“just like chairs falling”)
the names
that keep bleeding out
onto our thoughts
and tongues,
Far too much and
too often
not to choke on.
Here in America,
we’ve learned that
horror is level-headed.
It is debatable.
It is pangless.
It seeps, deep to the core,
perverting with a silent smile.
the steady, feverish dread
weaving itself into the mundane.
the “god help us”
annulled by the
“respectfully disagreed”
the nightmare that lies
always just underneath,
and just out of mind,
Until it insinuates itself
Again and again...
Here, in America
We line the bodies,
death slumped, and
bled out on the pavement.
We arrange them-
Side by side.
Most are missing things-
a hat, a piece of face.
one shoe, a dulled pencil
(fill in C)
phones
buzzing on the ground
lit up with unread messages
(“Please call me”)
They are missing-
an upcoming
7th birthday party,
(Star Wars themed)
They are missing-
their vacations.
their first dates.
their college applications.
job interviews.
kids.
fiancées.
Lined up lifeless,
they are missing
far too many things
to gather.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
I'm head starting the challenging life
12th grade decides my future strife.
Herein lies the mystery of tomorrow
Destiny of the mighty ship in my carefull row.
Not asking for incredible flourishing results
But delivering support for my stupendous work.
Not asking for imaginative unreachable marks
But holding my hands to provide the best of myself.
Not asking to pour elixir for hardwork devoid outcome
But strolling me through the gates of earnestness.
Not asking for your substitution in me
But to confront me with your intrepid grace.
Not asking for grade ten replica
But lending me the same earnest virtue.
Help me ignore the incompatible watchers,
To provide the least hope of comparing
Falling in despair in other's successful fruits.
But to help better and improvise my solitary results
And shelter me in your house of modesty.
No beneficial ranks but the submissive marks
that lends a hair to my cognitive efforts
To grant me light in the death of night.
Let me blossom as tranquily as the sunflower
Yet not vanish in the glory of jubliation
But gradually offer me petals
And extend the reliance day by day.
Mindful and heeding my compatible hardwork
Finally, let me conquer the glamorous colour
Of my utmost individuality.
Rehabilating the small hopes intro pristine reality
Aware of the hunger turning to lime light
To strike a chord for my year before.
Take me on your hands, float me through
legitimate mistakes, rip me apart in the wave
of unquenchable thirst and finally wrap me out as
a champion badge of jaded grade twelve.
Finally,
Bless me God, provide eternal marvels
Bless me God, honour the righteous path
As the testimony of your judicious grace
Bless me God, I'm starting life (grade twelve)
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
Inspiring Needle, pierce his fresh Leather,
Inscribing Earth's Totem into his Birth
Mum was Happy; What else could be better
For such Achievement as well as your Worth
So what if you Ascend?! Can you improvise
Those Loyal Customers who bought your Face?
Good Lord! Just on the lower-arm-set's Tripe,
Crypted to prevent another Disgrace
Envy? Me? Please! Not on my Word's Best Site
Will I even Dare to take such Sour Note
As I once reminded myself in-spite
For every Storm there is a Shred of Hope.
Three Figures picturesqued on certain Price
That Midnomer then showed his Biggest Size.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
There's an item that's truly essential
Of a roughly cylindrical frame
It's a marvel of modern invention
And a legend it duly became
It surpasses the birth of electric
And eclipses the slicing of bread
If it wasn't for this innovation
Then I think I would surely be dead
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Stick with me
Fix my wardrobe
Effortlessly
Hold up the curtains
Wax my thighs
Gaffer-tape Gaffer-tape
Improvise
It's useful for picking up hamsters
And it serves as a passable tie
As a gag for a amateur gangster
Or the crust of a blueberry pie
For a mite of podiatry pleasure
You can use it for mending your socks
If Pandora had come up against it
Then she'd never have opened her box
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Holding fast
Adhesive savior
Unsurpassed
Smooth as mirror glass
Diamond tough
Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Marvelous stuff
It's bringing our nations together
And it's holding them firmly in place
You can use it to pull back your wrinkles
For a genuine Hollywood face
It'd surely have saved the Titanic
And they took seven rolls to the moon
Keep it near and be calm in a crisis
And predicaments inopportune
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Mending sails
If you're tired
Of hammering nails
Buy some now
It's a thing to behold
Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Solid gold
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
My mother tongue got cut off
I’ve been bleeding in my mouth ever since
But I learned to cope with the pain
Because no one with my mothers tongue has been able to
Show me how to grow it back.
Hair grows back easily though.
It keeps my head warm
So my thoughts can sit comfortably
While trying to process what the **** everyone’s saying,
Without burdening the translator who just wants to listen.
I try but can’t listen or speak
It turns into a silent loud noise
This language barrier pulls my hair
My thoughts release with no refuge
It’s cold out here I try and tell them
But no one can hear me.
So I try to improvise and improvise
I wana say I love you. I’ll try and show you how.
I can’t verbalize my humor
It makes me cry.
Now they wont get to know me as deeply
As I dig for them and they dig for me.
Then they ask me how could you not learn your language
As if I hate it
I ask them do you know my story
I did not choose this.
It’s not their fault
It’s not my fault
Idk what was conspiring against me or with me
To make this happen.
So as I try and learn to grow back my mothers tongue
I pray that this is a gift
And its curse like symptoms is only a mask
I pray this is a gift
And its curse like symptoms is only a mask
I pray this is a gift
And its curse like symptoms is only a mask
Amen
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 3:42 AM UTC
All my life, I've been around some of the strongest of women.
True inspirations. All unique and incredible in their own way.
From a mother unafraid of a patriarchy to her mother, who treats age as just another logistic.
These past few months I was lucky to again, live among some of the strongest women I know.
Every day, intentionally or not, was a lesson to learn.
From them, this I learned:
*To live with grace and pride.
To love the the little things,
Always have wonder on my side.
From opening up, trusting a disruptive world.
To speak freely,
Yet always have a loving word.
To learn, to create.
To improvise,
And know that life's too short,
To refuse to compromise.
To care for all.
But care for the self just a tad bit more.
To make the most of a warm, sunny day,
Ride my bike a lot, if not everywhere.
To live fierce,
To love free.
And to apologize for being all you can be?
Never.
For this, I thank you.
For you, forever grateful.
To some of the strongest women I know.*
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
I don't get it
What the actual **** you want from me
Talk! Say it!
You don't have to ignore me
You don't have to talk sarcasticly
Be true! Make it clear!
So I do understand
The actual thing you want from me
If I did wrong so I can apologise
If I am behaving bad so I can improvise
But don't ignore me
Dont make me feel useless
I have heart too
I have feelings
But sometimes this silly mind of mine can be tactless
It can be hard for me to catch up on things if you did't tell
Because what seems right to me might seems wrong to you
So say it! Talk!
I am a human too
I am not perfect.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
no disco or nightclub
rattles out its beat here
you have to improvise
get inventive
depending on how
the day is going
the night will usually
take care of itself
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
.simone biles (the gymnast)...
miles davis (the trumpet guy)...
must be black privilege;
wasn't there a movie...
starring
woody harrelson
and wesley snipes?
you sure?
i thought it was
called: white men can't jump...
sure as **** ****** can
sing church gospel!
how's that for
privilege?
if you're going to
culturally box, and repeatedly
punch below the belt...
you're quiet likely going
to get a reaction...
i have an acne wart growing
on my *** the size
of a cauliflower,
it's itchy my brain,
it's differentiating between
agitate and: lying back...
i guess the excess of...
look... you may have
the excess melanin...
i have lactose tolerance...
we're even?!
no?
so how come some smurf,
some European hobbit
shackle your N.B.A.
Goliath(s)?!
explain that one to me...
if these people were so
cock-unsure...
how they **** did they
tame the Zulu Apache Goliath
bodybuilders?!
what the ****
i already said, and it was proven...
IQ...
i don't like it...
but i'm pretty sure that
the whites **** more people
in terrorist attacks than...
camel-jockeys...
it took 3 or over three...
to perform the Bataclan Massacre...
three... the third of the IQ
that required a Breivik...
130 in France...
dissociated among 3 attackers
that gorged on testicles after the spree...
fun, fun fun fun...
like: you're trying to say that without
irony...
and how many in Norway?
77...
i only look at the IQ of killers...
so... what's the ratio?
77 / 1
130 / 3 = 43...
like i said... low IQ...
you really want your little
racial insurrection?
you'll have it, don't worry..
i'll just the narrative...
must be black privy...
if you can mash up a jazz compos.,
right?
crackers read from
a prepared script...
you ******* just, "improvise"...
rapping contra talking...
**** come to think of it...
******* boys took it too far from
your Oreos...
like... too much drums...
not enough wind, or strings...
too much drumming...
pulverizing the ears
with drum & bass and what not...
if i wasn't deaf prior,
i'm deaf by now;
******* boy to Oreo woo-oo-oops
boy;
same **** different cover.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
Stunt ****
He can be your lover lady, ima be your stunt **** He can be your boyfriend mommy, ima be your stunt **** He can be your husband **** ima be your stunt **** stunt **** fluid swap, yep when them ******* drop. Lights, camera, action ,I’m your stunt **** stunt **** Lights camera, action, I’m your stunt **** stunt **** Ima be your stunt **** girl and beat it up, yep ima beat it up, that man there can eat it up. We don’t need no scrip for this act or no monolog, you can adlib, improvise on my microphone. We can do the box spring boogie all night long, we can get ***** coz play like its Comic Con. Tag your girlfriend in, we can do a menajahtwa , pile drive that nannie, Macho Man Wrestle Mania. Petting that ***** Doctor Claw, go go gadget pennies, working your equation *** notation like a mad genius. If I nut prematurely , don’t you worry I got ****** it’s not superman, but stuntman with all the stamina, Ima beat it up like Van Dam at the Comitia ,finger, lick and kiss each other while I ********* It’s ocean spray ,whale watching like in Monterrey.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
I find myself at the laundromat
Working out my thighs and lats
I put 2 quarters in the slot
It makes a sound like a robot
I open the door and I am posed
With a question asking, where are my clothes?
I don't wanna look stupid so I improvise
So I start chatting it up with a couple of guys
I say
Laundry for hire, laundry for hire
I'm looking for just the right buyer
Come on in, into my dryer
Laundry for hire, laundry for hire
One fine chap quickly agrees
Though I see him shaking at the knees
I ask him kindly to take out his keys
Don't worry kiddo this will be easy
He squeezes in, packed so tightly
I close the door feeling high and mighty
The machine rolls round and round
The door opens, and he falls to the ground
I feast on his entrails, meaty and sweet
Taking in the smell of his feet
I end my meal and am satisfied
Though I do wish he was deep fried
I feel a hunger still raging on
I still wish for it to be gone
So I say,
Laundry for hire, Laundry for hire
I'm looking for just the right buyer
Come on in into my dryer
Laundry for hire laundry for hire
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel so caved in,
With all my thoughts, all I can do is swim.
Through these energies that are flowing from within,
Just because I cant stop and ask what’s with him?
Why do I always have to make a choice,
My mind just wont let me be free,
I feel like I have to make a decision
but that’s not how Ive learned to be.
So let me tell you about this chick I know,
Shes not like all them girls that we always see,
The first time I met her I grabbed her by the arm,
I knew there was a story that was deep.
I looked in her eyes and all I can see,
her color contacts, that were trying to deceit.
But deep down inside there was a story that was real,
Her eyes and smile did a good job to disguise,
But that didn’t fool me,
I wanted to know the story that underlies.
The reason why she seemed so attractive to me.
Im not ususally a sucker for eyes, but the way she looked at me,
Made me feel like she understands how to be free.
I should’ve known the story she hides is something that might really hurt me,
Because any story that’s locked up inside should never have a spare key.
In the beginning I tried to make the situation feel sooooo real,
But soon I realized that she had an addiction that was unsealed.
Her wandering eye couldn’t stop her from speaking to many guys,
Im not saying shes some ***** in disguise,
But really she was a free spirit floating around that didn’t know her goodbyes,
Even though she realized that might soon lead to her own demise.
I shouldn’t say guys because in reality its just one that makes me compete,
That look in her eyes was that she once knew what it felt like to be complete.
That one other guy had left her so traumatized that shes never willing to forget,
It was her obsession just like a cigarette.
Everytime she felt angry or terrified there was one person who she knew would help offset,
That one guy who she never wanted to regret,
No matter the endless amount of time that he made her feel upset,
Dreaming in her mind that one day they can recreate that fierce duet.
See the problem was within me, I felt the need to help her realize
That life is always filled with opportunities
If we live in the past and never let go of what we once all had,
We ll stay blind and you would never get to see.
That there is some other guy that’s willing to improvise in order to help you lead,
I got shot down with all of these stories about how she cant commit,
The sad thing is she wont even realize how beautiful she is,
She lets one experience judge her whole life and all she thinks about is what if.
I even learned to like who she is regardless of the lovefilled flaws.
Just because I want to show her that her craziness can be fixed.
She thinks shes always lost her mind, and that her process is so one of a kind,
That no other guy can help her define, who she wants to be.
But I learned how to believe,
Before my insecurities and perfectionism took over my next decision,
But now what I learned is that life not about some kind of demonstration,
Its process that involves many years to learn,
I don’t know why but I really feel the need to have her in my life,
Even though it was causing me concern,
Now you know why I feel so caved in,
I fell for a girl who wont let me win.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
It kept her inside the workshop,
the only noise, a sewing machine
quietly purring like an old moody cat.
Spools of threads closed into fists,
Fingers curling back into their tiny shells.
She places a piece of cloth on the table,
The open seams sticking out
like the yellow stains of a neck fold.
An old worn out shirt with little holes
filled with imaginary garden trolls.
The smell of moth ***** seeping out.
Curling her lips like a slug with a pinch of salt,
A hesitant hand moves deliberately
as if feeling the roughness of a warty toad.
To keep one is to improvise, to mend spaces
tightly with thread and needle on skin.
She will say to herself: “I will keep him close”
Her little lover’s shirt on her small bruised frame.
chipped, she will drink liquor bitter.
She will drink it long and drink it deep.
November 2014
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
When Charlie was a young'un with a crayon and some paper
He would scribble til the paper ripped and the crayon turned to vapour
His mother would console him and she'd offer her advice
But just to drive the message home, she'd loudly sing it twice
Follow the lines, my boy, just follow the bleedin' lines
Just pick a side and stay there, always follow the lines
If you're not a fool then fake it
If you show your spine they'll break it
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
So when Charlie went to high school, how he tried to walk in stride
But the boredom of geometry provoked his naughty side
His professor would chastise him with a ruler and a cane
And, as an aid to memory, he sang him twice again
Follow the lines, young Charlie, you follow the blasted lines
Give it a try, you'll soon see, never cross over the lines
Don't be smart or play the joker
Aim for mainly mediocre
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
When assembling a wardrobe with his Allen key and spanner
He threw himself into his task in an overzealous manner
So when he called his father to report a broken bone
His old man tutted ruefully and sang right down the phone
Follow the lines now Charlie, just follow the ******* lines
Don't improvise or gamble, why didn't you follow the lines
Dodge unnecessary ructions
And adhere to the instructions
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
So in time, he raised a family, the lines etched in his head
One day he heard a buzzing from his aging garden shed
As he listened at the planking, how his face was drawn and long
For between the buzz and rustle, squeaked a tiny little song
Follow the lines, buzz-buzz, just follow the buzz-ing lines
Follow the bee before you, just buzz and follow the lines
Find the flowers when it's sunny
Fetch the nectar, make the honey
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
Buzz buzz
**
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
Round, strong.. beautiful pair of eyes.
One of their brilliant confrontation,
Their deepest stare leaves you in confusion,
at times thinking, wondering and oh the mixed feeling
But what matters above all, they're just there by your side..
always by your side.
All the sleepless and dreamless night,
what will I do? How could i turn off the lights?
watch your cat to sleep and bring them to their space.
their purrs are your lullaby..
and very soon everything would be fine.
Play them a song, tickle the ivories.
They'll hop along and lay on the keys.
their presence will not stop you from playing
you'll improvise the notes,
my dearest cat, you're all what I'm saying:
With a simple touch of love,
Cuddle them every now and then,
every hour, minutes and seconds..
Stay with me and don't leave me
they're the sincerest companion among all.
Much love to my dearest cat : whitina & tutut
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:17 PM UTC
It was the first gift he ever gave her,
buying it for five five francs in the Galeries
in pre-war Paris. It was stifling.
A starless drought made the nights stormy.
They stayed in the city for the summer.
The met in cafes. She was always early.
He was late. That evening he was later.
They wrapped the fan. He looked at his watch.
She looked down the Boulevard des Capucines.
She ordered more coffee. She stood up.
The streets were emptying. The heat was killing.
She thought the distance smelled of rain and lightning.
These are wild roses, appliqued on silk by hand,
darkly picked, stitched boldly, quickly.
The rest is tortoiseshell and has the reticent clear patience
of its element. It is
a worn-out, underwater bullion and it keeps,
even now, an inference of its violation.
The lace is overcast as if the weather
it opened for and offset had entered it.
The past is an empty cafe terrace.
An airless dusk before thunder. A man running.
And no way to know what happened then—
none at all—unless ,of course, you improvise:
The blackbird on this first sultry morning,
in summer, finding buds, worms, fruit,
feels the heat. Suddenly she puts out her wing—
the whole, full, flirtatious span of it.
2.5k
I was once able to improvise love
No I..I..Is
No Uh or Ums
Just I love you....
I didn’t realize that I never meant it
Then, one day, she arrived
The only available words were....Hi
Cheeks
Cheeks Cheeks Cheeks
I wanted to kiss her cheeks like it was the first time eating an apple
I wanted to kiss her cheeks like it was a chocolate cake and I was five
I wanted to kiss her cheeks like yesterday was the day i was given the gift of lips
I...I...I..wanted to kiss her cheeks like..Um..Uh
I was Once Able to Improvise Love
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Forgot
Forgot about you, forgot about me,
I even forgot how to ***
Forgot about birds, forgot about bees,
I even forgot how to say please.
Forgot about about hate, forgot about shame,
I even forgot my own name.
Forgot the last time, I was happy,
maybe I'm mean, maybe I'm snappy.
Living a life in the dark,
above my head is a question mark.
All I want is to be left alone,
I forgot the last time, I got blown.
It's not Alzheimer's, it's not amnesia,
maybe I'm still under the anesthesia.
Forgot about *** forgot about ****
I even forgot the day, I was born.
Forgot about peace, forgot about war,
forgot the difference between a ceiling and a floor.
Forgot about pain, forgot about suffering,
I even forgot why I was hurting.
Something happened inside my brain,
no one seems to want to explain.
Forgot about truth, forgot about lies,
I even forgot how to improvise.
Forgot what is hot, forgot what is cold,
I even forgot everything, I was ever told.
Forgot about life, forgot about love,
I even forgot all of the above.
So many things still left unsaid,
but I forgot that I'm already dead.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
You will be surprised at how well I improvise, between your lips and mine, I got it covered and I hope you don't mind. Us taking the time out, to cross signals, where ever we minds. This present, is our past time, making thins come together, one last time. Never say never, but not this time. The eyes never tell lies;mesmerized look in your eyes, after you taste our surprise. It's only a matter of time, before what's yours, is mine; our lips collide, my tongue slide, inside; side-to-side. Licking your lips, slick, they glide. I'm outlining yours with mine, tracing your smile. Your tongue, teasing, taking our sweet time. I, kept my eyes, open, hoping, we could see eye-to-eye, but your eyes were closed- finally got it right this time.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
About a million prairie miles
roll out slow from sparkling eyes.
Each night, beneath a blanket
of melting white noise
that distance wraps around your
toes and takes its sweet time
with every
aching inch.
If I could sell you a story
from pursed lips a half-inch
beneath my reddened, runny nose
who knows if you'd believe it?
But I might get rich if you
were buying
my slurring, supine words.
I could buy you.
A new coat.
With your coin.
And I'd borrow it for the winter.
'Cuz mine's all full of holes
that breathe too hard.
Like me,
on my long walks home
through streetlights and snow.
Like you,
in your bed tonight
carving words in your wall,
in the dark, with tongue tucked
tight behind your crooked,
perfect, lovely teeth.
A coat's no good in Summer
(save to improvise a pillow
when I sleep on friends' floors).
But you can sell me back my story,
(half-cost, I'd hope...).
And--just maybe--I could swallow
your million prairie miles,
and stomach five more months
of Sundays...
To read your wall.
Aloud.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC