on pretending to be traitor to your own vast unventilated best interest
still looking for it

extraordinarily temporary and brilliantly disarmed

The comfort of regular syntax normal language that anyone can hear. That says.

They’d call it a pose but I’d say well what isn’t aren’t we all framed like this.

A wren looks at me from its dead place just before I lift it by a leg and drop it.

I’ll always be sorry there’s never no end of that. Blue and gray air. Yellow air.

Black sirens these were cops pushing through like mad birds eyes on the next bug.

But by syntax I meant the day actually turning into itself. To understand bodies.

This. You’ll have to help me here. Normally I’d pretend to do it on my own. But.

Call it a big mystery probably not a miracle just the ordinary getting out of bed.

I was okay for the first few minutes. My claws tap tapped the same world as yours.


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