Tuesday, February 16, 2010

the flung in the moth of it

swords in all the dreaming. some alarm, but not b-larm. harm.

so i'm trying to get my students to let go of their consciousness a little bit. this surrealism course. and a couple of them seem to want to stay very much in control of their thoughts. it's going to be interesting to see if and when they step back from that position. and i've got to get my feet soundly somewhere into what feels like ground. that's slow mechanics though.

last night's sleep was made from pitted fruit. a basket worn to edge out a flood. spit and shine on the moon's dark behind. a lap of crumbs for the television viewing and i fail to mention current events because they'll stop being crowded with noise as soon as we forget them. first in line for this, a book of sayings--they erase themselves as they're mumbles. mouth marbled and stony. for the tour of france, keep the ticket you got with your umbilical cord--its a stamp on the blood or a courting with butter the things you eat in the morning.

i'll sort out the shirts and the daggers but only dream in monochrome when sleep comes down off its rocker and sips the whiskey flavored water that grunts from these faucets. shiny fixtures and plants that are drunk with their grain. simple pleasure is and is and is.

you are the rock i am thankful on. happy tuesday.

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