getting_close_to_the_burning_meadows paste! Yes, I am messy and prone to occasional outbursts. So many pancakes in this brain; where is my shell of amazing porcupine aspects? Using the line as a ticklish flux. Using the tackle box to stuff the chopped parts into. There is a necessary breach in the flow of air when it crosses into a tree; a tree with ham and shrapnel all throughout it. If this were a famous tree I’d have nothing extra to say about it. It’s absolutely charming to state the obvious, but when the placenta breaks the gobs of life lose their charm—-something to do with preservation. I know what you’re thinking—-the double scoop of mint chocolate is lodging itself into your forebrain and you’ve developed a picture of the nervous system with icicles and maps of Ukraine. Do not go there, they tell you, you tell them to eat their pants. Because when 49 shards of spackle fall from the ceiling, you can’t handle sitting in that chair that you call your own. Reminders: sticking the post-it note of headlines not-too-overwhelming all over the face of your dead lover. Is it or is it not like chafing your butt skin on a streetside boulder? I can’t catch my breath. You sketch tomatoes on the wall, fittingly, with a scab from my forehead. I have fallen off that wall; I was hanging there for days in an attempt to imprison my feet. Nothing is for sale to you. Eat my bludgeoned pigeon that I stole from the criminal. Where is the earth? It’s not a marathon, you don’t have to pace yourself. And wow, You is she; somehow I replaced a character from a novel with you, or is it the other way around? All I must know, right now, is to know the shape of an insensitive urge to floss all part of particles, to get rid of the branding or the welt or even the freckle that says, "hey you, have my oven, make something decent out of your baking life". 011031 ... newme . 040715 ... god spock's blisters 050217 what's it to you? who go blather from