Wednesday, June 24, 2009

You never give me flowers, oboe. And I never do.
I had a bad last last night.
The winter.
I was not connected, the dots.
One, two, five. Three, four, twelve.
The wrong processes were engaged, peristalsis.
I swallowed a pearl and this made me clam up.
Someone somewhere is a c.
Someone somewhere else is an f.
If you fish for the truth, it will snap.
The jewelry box held all the treasures of the other wife.
The other wife is a piranha, a ghost, a life-eater.
It is the reason diamonds are cold.
You never do. I never do.

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