2005-11-19 - 1:41 a.m.
When a free dash play autumn started coming through the window in mid summer, I knew I was in for it. Sweetness to be here, I did say. Remember the jubilant New Englander coffee joke? The epileptic episode at the revolving glass door? The clipping about how rich fuckers lead longer lives and how it's a scientific fact. I had a private place under the sheets for an exciting course of Q and A. A game of catch the untamed eel but still, the worst, most curdled dish taken at that dive bar with her was impressive. Leafing through even stranger love letters in sonnet form is revelatory, trying to remember the lines and rhymes, finding it hard. The child around the corner with alien concerns and the right body temperature. A Halloween Priest with Superman underwear tacked on for a giggle and an overdue coup de grace. He cuts out a brief article from the newspaper about how flossing and oral hygiene can lead to a happier life. This route to the city heart, the one taken by dirt can't count. Still, the real is that which isn't symbolized in the cries and laughs of chronic birth. Who made this wood cutting board with leaves gently etched in for safe-keeping? The author is dead says Harold Bloom. Yet still, a certain resident Cheryl Olsen stands bemusedly with hands in pockets, a whistle and hair bleached by some chemicals. Monumental bassoons admitting a breakout creek, heart rate increasing until the ears blow up and organize illumination. Cashing in at the corner store. In the music practice room the forecast called for slutty skies. The nourishing teachers these days are getting out of the business because they can no longer teach the way that they want to. "No child left behind" is a Timothy Lehaye bullshit trace and yet Congress got it through, much to my butt chagrin.
