Frames of Reference Through her bedroom window, Sophia stared across the prairie at the old, rust streaked water tower. The pouring rain flowing over the pane glass gave it the appearance of perpetual melting. She wondered how she might paint it. The thought quickly faded, becoming hazy, then null, like a polaroid in reverse development. She sighed, looked down into her nearly empty cream colored coffee cup, and saw the small remainder pooling and drying ring-like around the edges at the bottom. She went back to drawing cute little chimeric creatures on a napkin.She had, over a long period of time, acquiesced to a bearing of herself that required little to no
Haiku ennui . . . Sugar taste is nice.I can concentrate again.But food is better!The pigeon is gone,wanted her independence.Baby bird can't fly.Sunlight through the blinds.Draw them up to get more rays.The window is warm.Sleep in odd places.Twist to fit, get fitful rest.Arms and legs go numb.Mangy pit bull pups.More skin and scabs than fine fur.They're still so happy.Tricks folks for spare coins.But after he buys the beer . . .feeds birds and fishes.Girls on river walkjust testing their skin magic.They laugh 'cause it works.
Schrodinger's Orange Joseph walks up behind me just as I log on for a 15 minute session. He's an older guy, bald, with a mustache, probably in his late fifties, and for some reason he's always wearing Hawaiian shirts. He talks in a deep, but somewhat nasal voice, kinda like he has a permanent headcold, and drawls a little bit."You finished with that book yet?" he asks"Yeah, you can have it. As promised.""Cool. You should check out some of the other ones in the series.""You got a cigarette? Y'know, to make it a trade.""Just rollies.""Alright. I'll be out in a few."The internet really isn't offering much. So I finish up quickly and head out to the ste
The Dice Cup "Soo . . . stupidity. How's thatworking out for you?"She asks with a twisted grinwhile she teases a lock of herchampagne hair into an improviseddred to add to the ever growingmass of braids beads baublesand bottlecaps with rebus puzzlesthat's camped out on her head.We take a walk down the blockand I'm dumbstruck when shegives me a push toward a storefrontmaking sure I step in some white gum.She wraps it twice around my waistin a sticky embrace when I whip aroundas she asks "What happened?"She prefers thrashcore anymoreBut razzes me with some jazzBecause she remembers whenit paid her the highest tribute.
IZ-US: OZ The waking state walked into the corridors of my brain with an easygoing air that morning, slowly separating the the bouncing voices of twilight into something agreeing with a commonly construed consensus of consciousness. Almost automatically I arose, said hi to the sun so high up there like it could or even would care, and being starstuff myself silently stated with a breath that perhaps the glaring yet gleeful looking ever glowing mass did in some sort of fact look down upon me. Truth.The streets, still in their stillness, not yet stimulated by arbitrary divisions of forward shuffling synched up symbols to receive the steps of other city
FUCK Pronouns Library card #= G7455>submitReservation Type:1 hour>submit"PC Reservation ReceiptPIN: 7030PC: First Floor #3 - 1 HourDate: 4/25/2009Time: 1:10 PMLength: 60 minutesWait: 30 minutesPlease keep this receipt."I want to say something.So do you.Maybe there's nothing worth saying anymore.Maybe that's just me.Maybe I think that because I heard it from youand someone/everyone else.The scales tip so quickly sometimes.Fuck pronouns.I want to say something . . .sexywittybeautifulbanaluglyapatheticrevolutionary.Fuck pronouns.The trees outside arehidden by a thin grey mistGod's nose is runnin
Sta.sh
