Friday, May 4, 2012
I want to eat through this lace like a moth, Such a beautiful damask, my friend, but, this awkward stuffiness is binding, and there is an eye-hole for each pinch, flutter, and nibble. You ask me a question with each swig of memory my head raised you joggle my eyes, I reorient myself, still dizzied. you don't remember anything- even though you were there. Let us read the words of the already deceased, That is to say, there would be nothing more forthcoming, from you, from them, you would be- soundless as a headstone.
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...