Applesauce lemonade pineapple pie, how many pancakes til we
die? These are the questions that we bake over the alabaster underwater stake.
Lay into opening and carve up the puddle, mark up the blueprints and darken
down the muddle. Once all the riddles have been sharpened by the wit, take all
the intellects and snip them all to bits. These are the ends and never to the
middle, once all the answers have solved our own selves’ riddles.
Whatever happened there was too fast to escape from, the chewing
gum under the seat too discreet to slip away from as it scooped its hold boldly
onto thighs and fabric alike, claiming games in the name of embarrassment and
other certainties. While we were looking the other way, misunderstanding crept
in and threatened. I wasn’t having it. I didn’t invite it. the night is not
worth rolling over in if the dark is prickly. I prefer the velvet of
closeplease and the underdog alarm clock goes off again: I want yes.
The apology is in fashion and I am a strong supporter. I
cannot stop myself from undertaking the claim that it is the fault of this
tongue, unstrung and hung out to dry its tired eyes in confused illusions.
Still and all and the call of the wild child within, there are sinking swims
within these mistakes and I do not make them all my own even as I bake clones
of other badtalk balks I back away from quickly, sticks stuck in the mud and
the befuddled hand-me-downs crowned and drowned in somewhereother and
sidewayselse cafes. By the way I hope for yes.
Please and thank you for the rank you’ve conferred with
absurd certainty and this point and the disjointed structure of this narrative
which lives on and gives strong beauty to these days. I praise the wild life of
lovely imagination which lookingback offers and the surprise which appears even
as I ponder the wonder from angles window-wide and upclose. Whatever else is
other but for this I say yes.
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