(no subject)
belly up to it. warm. raising and falling away again. it's all suffering and sleeping now. tomorrow it may be this or that. rolling in the sand. the feel of sand in my hair. under running water and collecting around my toes. i think of the imperfect. i think of failures, of shoulders drawn in pencil on white painted cardboard. i think of a thousand tacks. bad reasons. a squash decaying in water. or maybe just running to avoid play dates with sweaty-lipped mosquito killers. the warm haze of beery after taste and holding my tongue. ranting drives and peanut beef and broccolli over rice. it needs more honey, honey. we could all use a bit of sweetness couldn't we. i've lost a few tracks over time. twelve by twenty pieces in green and pink with lovely scribbled words. those were lovely. it's all a matter of working, working hard and harder. hop over new york diaspora to beachy self-promotion, conflict of interested and all of that. three yeahs and dave brubeck on vinyl on a saturday afternoon on hardwood on pale skin. i think the sun shines on us all. the lame. the sad. the rich. the upright and the low. whores and nuns and prudes. it's comforting really, knowing that we can never get that far away from each other. a blonde that can't drink, too far away for my taste. she does anyway. i think i could draw a straight line in less than four hours. how about you?