What I’m
trying to say is that if an experience is bent into a sandy beach it
might be better presented as a Christmas present than a poem.
Or bicycle.
Me, I like to drink coffee and roll around on the
floor until someone scratches my belly.
I ceased worrying about maturity long ago. It didn’t
even appear on my radar. I worried about character. Character is a good thing.
Character is fundamental. Feeling is paste.
The difference between men and women is milky with
ambiguity.
It isn’t always about genitalia. Sometimes it’s a
matter of glass slippers and dawdling around a 7-11 at dawn, waiting for Igor
and the Count to arrive. There is no behavior that can be described as
singularly male or female. What there is, is this: prickly collars,
participles, and skin. The push toward absolutes. The anxiety resulting from
not finding any absolutes.
Fourteen months after the accident at
Fukushima Daiichi, a pool brimming with used fuel rods and filled with vast
quantities of radioactive cesium still sits on the top floor of a heavily
damaged reactor building, covered only with plastic, says the New York Times.
Fuck me.
We all live under the sword of Damocles.
The
foot of a chair, the back windows with a view, the edge of a table, corals,
water, round glass, fish, these are some of the elements casted in this world
of strangers. Welcome to the Aquarium!
Mushrooms flourish in the nimble swell of a lollipop
brassiere. Accept it as a symptom, a sign of quivering disembodiment, the kind
of disease that begins in the ego and ends in the planetarium, where the
universe swirls around your head in the form of a million gazillion stars, and
spasms of escape from the thralldom of work assume an astronomical urgency.
Disunion of production and consumption is a common
enough occurrence. But how does one remain sane and balanced in the midst of
all this hallucination?
The cowboys call it Pulling Leather: holding
onto the saddle horn to keep from getting thrown when a horse is bucking.
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