I just hung up the phone.
A dialtone replaces your voice and sometimes, I find it more intimate
to hang up the phone.  I find it more intimate to
say narrative fuckin' sucks dude!
I prefer linebreaks, unstoried, the boy, the girl, the donkey, the house, unstoried
songs about how I wake up in the morning with all three characters, wondering
each of them who we are (by we I mean me, by we I mean us)  wondering
if there any good ideas left at all
or if there are any bad ideas, either, because
one will thread them into a makeshift narrative involving magic and this will be called poetics.
The poetics b/w us include serious truths, Plato & Play-Doh. The poets are wacked, re-mold them.
New brightnesses upon crude voids.
It's spring, after all.
The snow still falls, though, and
the trees wear white parkas, we make snow angels, and the snow falls
while choking snorkelers sully the field with spume.
I'm very happy single these days, choking
bloke still life.
It seems like art: the six pistachio shells on the left side of your desk. I want to keep them
in triplicate.