[Response to: Kill…]
[Response to: Half dancing half waiting.]
ALSO, further, furthermore it was as if he would NEVER KNOW which is what always SO got him in the end. He could see THINGS happening it was just as if TWO women had just WALKED BY one carrying a MOSTLY broken umbrella the other carrying a FINE umbrella and he still couldn’t really RELATE. REALITY. It went down and came UP the fire escape EVERY few minutes and still IT was as if EVEN THREE WOMEN and a SMALL FLAT ANIMAL and a FLY even in the ROOM didn’t measure ANY much. COULDN’T measure. Even a SMALL FLAT DOG with TWINE and a PINWHEEL. Even a FLAT FLY and FOUR tall women and a flute and a coat made of gravel. SPARROWS.
You know THAT POEM about the lemon wheel that one can RECALL as VAGUELY GREEK. You KNOW that ONE? He read it over a GRAVE with a stuck PINWHEEL in the top. Now isn’t THAT just.
[THIS IS YOUR 157TH POST. AMAZING! THIS POST HAS 157 WORDS.]
[response to: and here i go a-raveling…]
I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not fucking afraid.
[response to Smell of Exhaustion]
why is it that part of me FEELS like when people respond to something made by ME or by anything you might want to think PERTAINS TO ME its always out of a sense of exploiting an ironic GAP or some other such FAULT line. is my distrust of other people THAT BAD? am i INCORRIGIBLE? is that why i’d rather just sit inside, throw some WHEAT through the hand press, see what THAT MIGHT LOOK LIKE, maybe put in a TRASHBAG? yeah i’m not doing enough with my MOUTH these days, maybe that’s a CONDITION, yeah, i do smell that, the wet paper is STUCK to the roller and the PLATE, it didn’t register.
We gathered in “salient dollops of three or four to “examine our writing and ideas and “whether they needed more salt or just “collated measures of “compelling language” and “novel juice,” and one patriot asked whether we meant “novel” juice or novel “juice,” to which we unanimously replied “’novel juice,’ like we said,” except for the second of the patriots who actually replied, “novel juice, like we said,” the quotes having been “scared right out of his words, for which a third patriot accused him of “blatant plagiarism, burning bridges, and “sticking high-voltage electrodes up our “low-voltage bums,” a metaphor which not one drop of us could understand “the meaning” of, but some fourth patriot stuck out his hand, forwards, shouting “Death to meaning! Death to understanding! Death to patriotism, jibber-jabber, eloquence, and alliteration!””””””””
The professor looked at the problem child, who wore beautiful, soggy eyeballs, and asked, “What’s wrong with alliteration?” The fifth and sixth patriots began wailing miserably, ending our celebration.