sticks in the water are losing their otters. bet you i’ll falter if given a chance to play doctor. i feel like i’m an imposter. scammers and loggers are helping the earth. i’m like an ad blocker. cut out the property. give it to saucers, then tell a roommate i signed with a blotter.
smooth and unobstructed, yet losing my sense of an interruption. i focus on my distractions to wipe down the windows to look at reductions. first is my eyes and their discoloration. they look like baked, blueberry muffins with pink sheets of glutton. eyebrows are trimmed with a dull pair of scissors and barbasol functions to sculpt whiskered cheeks. toughen up boy is a mantra employed when my punishments send me to dungeons. too much assumption. not enough rugged. stopped wearing buttons. instead i rummage through my possibilities, throwing redundancy into the alley. i’m listening for a duchess to tell me what supper is. where is my club? was it chucked into the river to swim, or to confront nature’s front flip with spin?
given a free afternoon to be beached in a swoon of a classical piece that was written by Keaton. maybe he created it to release since his older material reeks of sweet melancholy. one minor key and i drop. three in a chord and my knees start to pop as i sink into sleep to evade any pause. breaks are when maintenance and projections fall through the cracks of blacktop in a hurry to feed an army of lost causes i keep for a homemade crockpot recipe where i cut and combine all my tries into taunts jesting reason and thought.
cross my imagined response to injustice with quiet. suffer in silence. mutter rejection. outspoken against their violence, but what do i know? i’m invited to meditation, not recruited by american-bred bison implying our strength is a title in need of defense. fly in a jet since the roads are a mess from explosives and wreckage. permanent is my intent. only resistance will lighten the density of territorial diamonds and wet oil more refined than human nature respects.
– D K T