Thursday, May 24, 2012
each blue line is a savage and if its hungry mouth is empty it does not eat today and I starve. but are you grateful to have my possessive tattooed words on your tongue, you gnashing savage? most often not. and it causes this wretched pain, like a thorn in each toe, and I can only pilgrim by walking, no one will have me on their back. I question empty clouds, "why is there no rain today?" "why did you forget to bring the rain?" "how could you forget again? "you never remember anything..."
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...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...