blue dragon flies stick underneath my chin
crew wagon cries brick mossgrowth lichen
the gibberish your bodyfree nights reduce me to
is predictable enough.  You play sitar--you are leaving
here to figure out the strings
coming back from the cellar holding their idolized tucan
all of 'em singin' murda wuz da case dat dey gave me word word
but for real, a month without watching Uncle Buck is a month misspent.
Conversely, two months spent playing the sitar is reason for alarm. Where has our
chubby pet walrus gone?  Boyoboy he loved him some peanut butter sandwiches
and if only I had him back
and could see the steel eyelids close fast
but not so fast as you could pluck the sitar.  Conversely,
gargantuan navels collapsing, oh my
so much refraction.
What will happen when we both die? Will we
die? Unlikely. So's the "non-all" character of historical materialism (hence, A Month Without)
that makes us believe we are free.