Stripes and apple-shines have happened again;
They’ve blown in stealthily, below centigrade.
I count them for comparison, keeping patience on the margin.
I chalk it all up.

Several times have I edified a sandbox for one night’s stay.
There I’d bury some translucent wrongs en route to a right.
Heathering along, I would bide unconvicted
Allowing for the heretofore.

A declaration, however, is not in store
Per the present close motion of ten-minute increments
Clung to woolknits.
Just within is need I manufacture by withdrawal.
It’s a dense enumeration, reversed and malcontent.
A cycle round each unbounded moment.

Soon will be the anniversary, wherein I will adopt the new muse.
I’m ripe for abdication,
Having taken so much in.

The sun is one to do without for now; for now, lie low from it.

Rip me apart motherfuckers, slow and sure.
I can always crayon a portrait of the process,
A multi-interior landscape.
Unless you’d impart better judgment on an oil.

By playing the caprice for you, I must have it whittled down already.
Why I’d negate presumption: now one role’s switched,
I guess I’m the pessimist.
Shave your beard.

I’m waiting at the airport, fourth time too many.
One foot upon another, they complement themselves in purple strains.
I bet long hair brings transportation. But even when I tried I could be no
Libertine debutante. The freedom’s in the fecal dealing, time of death.

For all our ethical bankruptcy, I still have the bathroom floor.
Its scent enlivens what I never knew.
But who am I?
I have an idea. I’ll go construct it for you:

Must fingers form steeples in the afterglow?
Must viewpoints illumine in case of a chance?
Will ever the twigs be out of your field?
For once, award them what they’re worth.

An orange and a ruby, together and alone
In your own little self-seeking fractals,
you fucks.
Try and spare me this time the invitational gin.

You’ve caballed me toward my faction.
Nothing must be explained, nor bargained for --
To absorb and convalesce is what I stay for,
Once the sun retreats a bit and takes me with it.

by igor fucking brown or whatever the fuck his name may be.
................................
writing this weekend, starting last thursday, i've gotten some good shit. all i've done for three or four days or something is read and write. and nothing for school. kind of neat, feeling like i'm in fifth grade, except it's all sprung from my new moping reflex. katherine and i are very inclined to shooting the shit, up in here, up in here. facing our lime green curtains.