Saturday, November 15, 2003

your friends could find you, the last sentence possible. while the thread unravels, as a portent for better fare, the years eat everything with a twist. in scanning the dialogue, triggers are assuaged. the manner of practice, a fest of scuttled detail to be fulfilled with a period at the end. we end saying what the lurking presence is behind the backdoor near the grill. what's the last of every first thing, thirst in the pictrure and the devious warrant settled for a portion of the national interest. as if dreams were murder and this is a patient love that thrives. as if is the detail run thru the mill, mill being a patch on what Hart Crane said once. all gets used in a systematic vocabulary. the very edges of fighting thru have crud on them. workers tire as they cite their favourite attempts. space seems excessive. the aliens cannot even fill it.

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