People Try To Put Me Down Just Because Fine Ham Abounds
The blogrolls are dead or at least comatose. Not saying that as a result my grids of anger will cease, not saying I'll interpret this as an omen to disengage and quit, am saying fine clustermetaphorfucks abound, the interconnectivity between the multitude too negatively serendipitous (serendipity works to kill as well as chill, yo), too many of them not to be a sign of too many somethings. Work contributes this time of year, but a dark patch be here, and (monologue in (and is) today's grid, cobbled before the blogroll kill-off) this is the first medicine I take to try and brighten
“We, we children, why our lives are circumscribed, circumferential;
Close, too close to the center, we are haunted by perimeters And our lives seem to go in and out, in and out all the time, As though yours were diagonal, vertical, shallow, chopped off
At the root like the voice of the famous gadfly: ‘Oh! Aho!’ it Sits in the middle of the roadway. That’s it. Worry and brown desk Stain it by infusion. There aren’t enough tags at the end, And the grove is blind, blossoming, but we are too porous to hear it.
It’s like watching a movie of a nightmare, the many episodes That defuse the thrust of what comes to us. The girl who juggled Indian clubs Belongs again to the paper space that backs the black Curtain, as if there were a reason to have paid for these seats.
Tomorrow you’ll be walking in a white park. Our interests Are too close for us to see. There seems to be no Necessity for it, yet in walking, we too, around, and all around We’ll come to one, where the street crosses your name, and feet run up it.”
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