You have asked me what the lobster weaves between its golden claws, and I respond to you: The sea knows. You say to me, “What is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for?” I say to you, it waits as you do for time. You ask me whom the embrace […]
In times like these in which we are all in it together and <it> is times like these which we are all in we, the international corporate corporation’s propaganda arm wish to extol to you who are all in it together with yourselves how deeply we care about you whom we have terminated in one
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on a not quite rainy san diego afternoon the ingestion of drugs evaporates shades of pretense and I see a world populated with pretenders and I wonder . . . who writes this script? every line thick with the profound as well as the absurd with splashes of sarcasm all at once I seek truths
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They listened to the wind through the branches and held each other close. Beyond the walls of the small weathered house, night creatures foraged for whetever they could find, invisible owners of the desolate plains.
One skin-tight bite of this sweet tarty tomato cancels all dominion of the self. Tasting the flesh in this flesh one easily becomes translucent. Criss-crossing the tomato heart, brigades of sensations sensate my mouth. So what’s this shake-out between eating tomatoes and making love? This skin blushing red to a simple touch, this full fleshy
If I had known I would’ve told you I’d been there too that it’s normal for people like us. That the fog will eventually burn off with time, fiction, and whiskey. We would’ve remembered Hemingway Van Gogh, Plath, and Wallace who fought the fine fight for the arts and died nobly— which would’ve been the
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