justwrite 28 april

I am thinking of a letter between yes and no and it’s not you it’s not me it’s not two or even three and it’s hard to tell where this is going it’s fair to say that it’s not snowing but beyond that Ararat is glowing in allusion but truly it’s an illusion which is to say it isn’t which hasn’t got a minute to waste but to waist there are more inches than time can allow if a cow and a sow have a how-now-off which one will scoff first which one will cough first and who’s to say they haven’t rehearsed is it a truly impromptu brouhaha and if I lift my arms up with bruises looseness will the juicy bits all eclipse the hurt from awkward boxes toxic to afternoon laziness I thought the post would send I had no way to end that sentence but with a grimace and just a mimic of an idea to start that off a once-again trough into which I stick my face replacing the casing but not from a bullet there’s more than an idea to it I have some writing to do and it’s true that’s my thing but the headache that it brings as an assignment of the uninteresting sort ready to be graded by someone faded out of originality and residing in hiding in quotations from opposite destinations in the tire tracks heading away I’ve got to say the right play will win but the strategy is thin and the answers quite obtuse is the picture of a sunrise is the metaphor a simile thinly weaving together some sort of fair-weather trope is there hope for something fresh and do-rechi do I have that in stock is there a clock boiling over and will the car start once the barn door opens there are lots of lines divine rhymes and alabaster elevators to ride up and down and there’s no need for a crown but a round loaf and a olive jar would get far enough in the right direction that a collection of thoughts ought to head thataway there’s another fray to pull together the rubber cement treatment all along a collagey way I have to say that’s one that sticks with me that ticks quickly through the rounds and the words herd themselves into camps damp fields tickling like whiskers trickling along the grass classing up the joint and unwinding re-signing all the former talents all the scouts out there hamming it up and returning to find vegetarians shaking their heads we have said our parts and our hearts have mulled it over I’m reaching into the clover and we’ll see how many leaves are left