2004-03-09 - 11:58 a.m.
peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.
that is the introduction into a seamless sleeve of saliva hanging down in a long strand. about to break. people have so many cracks that long sleeves become fashionable for their covering nature.
she sells sea shells by the sea shore
cracks have ways of pronouncing themselves. and spidering out.
hickery dickery dock, the mouse ran up the clock.
a clock
a mouse
some miscellaneous hickering
the simplicity of scenery causes aches in me.. it aches the way flowers ache to bloom.. the way clouds ache to pass overhead..
i ache for distinct objects doing simple things for simple reasons. like a round cloud. moving west. because.
when i was a kid, there were no murderers, or rapists, or domestic violence. there was good and bad. nothing was dismembered-- it died. nothing caved in or gave up-- it went away. nothing was explained-- it happened. but 'who are you kidding' is the marrow of growth. kids becoming ings and ings become tions and tions become isms.
i don't write to feel included.. i don't write to feel vindicated.. i don't even write to escape .. i write to answer the lash at my back.
