Sunday, May 7, 2017


I have certain beliefs I profess to live by;
the lantern is set on the table  -  that white,
Coleman hiss giving a certain form of
comfort. I take solace, maybe. There are
fronds of a plant drooping over the edge,
how long that will be I do not know.
Something else is humming, somewhere.
The light today is a bare gray, outside of
the season, seeming to take nothing of its
own definition. Throwing palates of pale
on the corners and flats, I can live like
this, I suppose. I must. I suppose.
You can't unearth spaghetti, nor can
one hide a waffle under a lamp : yet,
the scientists of syrup and dining will
be working on these things  -  tracing my
eye movements, watching readers as they
scan ads and scams , so to see what the
fools will fall for. I fall for light. Yes.
If what made you buy that is what made
you but that, then all is well beneath the
sun. (But Mama, that's where the fun is?)

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