Short glimpse of the Old Bull. Resurrected, castigated, drooling slightly deformed. Literary maniac, looking for Belle Pour Ilionaa because we all are, out hungry electric. Today I dismantled the radio feedback and signed the bad air. It's warm for a near end of the month. Sky clears, then darkens. Their writhing shapes visiting me, perfect and the old teacher sticks his dirty hand out of the grave. We all make an annoying comeback sooner or later. Black streets and the cars talk quietly to me and the bar scene. I know your darkness and the inhabitation of the. Cool once again. Take care of them. I will see you always even at the end of the reasons. I should emerge and be ready for anything. Future holding. Everyday I dream of the last book no one will write. The world got sick and a recovery seems unavoidable. I imagine time will renounce us on some battered shore. The dishes will be there and I'm returning for a simple letter or two to trace. The footsteps in an alarm clock. Ok goodnight. The pen almost writes by itself these days. I dedicate this to a someone dedicated to finding their way home. An American classic, under a rainless sky. A cat blesses me somewhere. In the hospice of a challenger or will we rescue the two astronauts who are eternally stuck. I remember a few things about saving. Holy in the dark electronics. Annoying but desiring to communicate. Magnetic threads. Up and down. 35W. A listening to the swirling spirits dumping themselves out of their offerings. Laying in bed all day reading about a love for the new song you turned down. A wounded electricity. A punk to look down on as he ties your shoelaces together. See and run past. Lightning quick. To the other side of the static. Through the machine a broken TVee. They used to repair them. Now they feel situated in their time zone. Write a bestseller in 15 minutes. The voices of a late abstraction. A stamp outbounds past curfew. A cunning stunt. Close. At least someone knows what their purpose in the universe is. Finding me for a cup of coffee. A telepathy with a roar building more dark matter. I give a tense and sincere apology to you whizzing past me but with all the compliments of history. Music from NY to Calexico to the disappearing arctic and the tornado season is almost here. Is there any place to go for planting season? Under the eclipse of my degree in a mental art. The temporary birth. Pray if you still can or dwell in the math for 10 minutes of fame. A bright future, brighter than our Sun the dark eclipse. A shadow of movement, Uncursed because our chromosomes weep the water cycle with tears for themselves. I'm not slushy, but a little ripe. It got the seance going or the synopsis. Calling a juvenile playground spat a photo opportunity of to get the straws and cigarette butts we find for 9th Street typewriters, back when friends rocked and I had less to talk about but the cold windswept imagination I walked through in that desolate homeless coat just to get keys for work driving all day on the ice, sliding through the accidents, A job they needed someone to do. Training them, so they ride off onto the sunset, and everyone is left wondering why he still consumes all by himself his breakfast keys and a trilogy or a tryptic or a trinity. Thankfully someone will still drink coffee with someone else in the distant centuries in the exterior of this world disconnected from artistry and the vacation of a lifetime. Relaxed and the beach is where the waves erode and error the centuries. A plight of the movie intertwined with reality. A love perverted? Healed? (a word gift for?)...Someone who will say good morning in another time zone. Café noir avec creme et sucré et un bon matin a Le Monde? Ou un bier ou vin a demain? Mon amore...le future et un flick illuminated sur YouTube. Tres Belle. Je suis ton mot mais ajourdhui je pour les moins adoration de tu et vous et moi et je adore eternal notre temps.
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