next_stop knot meat sunshine biscuits, danger paddles kabul commissary and the fertile pacific suburb fuck, federal laws, orientalism revisited as kitsch sharp eyebrows, empty eyes cellphones, no one worth calling egg donors and overpopulation microcosm eyes of the latest infant. gap shopping bag but a decent heart imagining more than you want - his life, her life in an instant, a notch, knowing you could, not - not the actual thing you already have, had have, have had handicap hieroglyphics, and rail braille truman's voice reading oppenheimer's science "next stop embarcadero" do not lean against the doors written for archaelogists maybe donateyoureggs.com find out if you can have babies you never see. penises sit beneath dockers like fish flopped on their sides attentive, not overbearing those are the dockers ads. all destinations, 2$ rent for the homeless. the station opens to background scenes. 040512 ... knot meat the train with its increasing nose. the tunnel moves in your ears, howling out its shape it sounds round nervously filled you can hear the weight of the earth chasing its tail. the tunnel slides across windows constant wallpapering - smells like an empty church not sacred just strange - and tension acceptable tension toilet white lights the way dentists are evil and inescapable to children - a murderer smiling at his trial. and blue scribbled carpets the downcast eyes of passengers like shameful sex. not the first time or the last time you've set alarms paid included yourself in something where everyone wants to be somewhere else. 040512 ... knot meat gatorade from a vendor in the station which your/my mother might half-heartedly think is poison. the train bisects water towers from water towers houses from houses history has its atoms in the trains called out stops - the newspapers back pages that no one reads asks if we're too good at war. the taste for it like sunday morning cartoons when your sibling gives and lets you watch your channel unflinched - our hearts want to bluff and call bluffs, but we've created weapons that outstrip what our heart had in mind. boring paper anyways. chem fucked. something has to be sacred to profane it, or can be realized as sacred by your profaning, though not always as expected. a baby was brought into work today. train bisects baby world work world. hooded in soft pink and its hands are still small. and it just cries not to any particular end, just a general strategy. the train goes on and it sounds like a baby crying - just following orders, from small hands a heart inexhaustable for now, as hungry as it will ever be, and so, as innocent 040512 ... p2 willoughby 040512 ... stork daddy i like this one 070626 ... :) i met Ralph Harris in de post office next to the sweeties ! hee hee 070626 ... ;-) and i got Matilda from Roald Dual, he gave it to me for improvement. hee hee the Twits ! and he winked at me ! 070626 what's it to you? who go blather from