11-13-04/12:16 PM

a dull admittance of defeat,
silent for the most part -
the grim futility of romantic inklings.

but yr still clinging to the pretense. picturing about a million crab apple blossoms, beligerant to november, coming down on powerlines outside yr bedroom window, frying fracticals, friends don't let friends fall for each other -
fixated on fine tuning yr troubles around wild turkey and spaghetti. there's a reasonable madness to everything, i'm sure. swallowing hard, trying to haze up the backseat windows without using any more breath, better clouds come from confusion, of which you will finger-paint directly into the middle of plate-glass: "charcoil",
to symbolize the remainder of your insides burning up.

an isosceles siding.

slipping reason, really, what's it doing for you?

watching the strippers do calculated swan-dives down the center-stage pole n' yr mind is hard-pressed on pressing matters like ohio dream prophecies, finding yr kittens teeth in the folds of yr teeshirt sheets, a million phonecalls you haven't made yet, buying into not feeling better, vegas at christmas, n' how hard it just may happen to be when believing in something - a slight of hand - a little huger than yourself.

sacrifice is screaming for a rest,
n' ya'll just really want to relax.