Saturday, May 5, 2012
I might even chance to stand on your back, for a lift, I wish my conscience could shirk the endless streaming seeds, inside my head, your breath, so windy, inspired. But, no, I am not who you once were I am forever me. but you don't remember, even though you were there. I see a wrinkle in the corner of each eye, for every smile, a wrinkle in your neck for each nod, a wrinkle in your toes for each step ahead. And at times it seems that is all that separates us, a toe. What is competition? Should we compare notes? Stains in our teeth? lumps in our flesh? woes in our head? Should we compare pricks, in our hearts, a pissing contest of damages.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...