Sunday, March 5, 2017


I have no plans, and there's nothing
going on : I live in an empty valley,
one to which Sancho Panza himself
has never come. I play dominoes,
sometimes, with the Spirit of Darkness,
but pretty much that is it. The phone
company took away my contacts,
long before the ark and Noah too.
Now, this pedal-pusher lady with
whom I cohabit is sometimes long-lost 
gone and I sit here drinking tea with 
Lords and Bishops. Early Grey Tea 
really grates my ass and the scones 
are too sweet for me.
Sometimes I wonder about things,
and then I just realize, instead, that
I don't understand a thing. So why
bother, and why the fuss? If, as I do,
we grant 'consciousness' to all things,
then how can I stand the sound of the
grief and the anguish? Sun burning
cars, cars killing deer, deer killing
plants and trees. All that noise
should really be deafening. Of a
horror, and of a pain. Everywhere.
I can't write my essay because my
fingers are dead and there's nothing
to hold a pen or type with. I could be
one of those guys who types with a
pointer on his forehead, but then I'd
probably poke my eyes out and go 
blind instead. Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph (such a happy family),
what's the use? This all just
becomes the one forgotten.

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