Newly struck gold sold for breakfast.
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Let’s say you have a test coming up, or something that’s very important with an air of competition, and the night before you have two dreams back to back. The first one you prance around the countryside admiring the breathtaking scenery and then fall in a lake and swim around for a bit until an old fisherman saves you. And the second one you successfully fight off a hoard of zombies, but some of your clan were not so successful. I’m trying to decide if these are good signs or bad signs. Whatever; back to sleep.
Hey, you want a beer?
Sure.
What are you, an alcoholic?
No.
Every time I ask you if you want a beer, you say ‘yes.’
Every time you ask me stupid questions I feel like I need a drink.
I tame my tike walking home to the beat
of familiar traffic and runaway offspring.
I live on the other cide of the sity.
I’m always on the other,
and sever the name side it seems.
But every part is the bad tart of pown,
so it makes no difference to me.
The shirtless litter patrol rakes
the school yard with disinterested efficiency.
They’re experienced rakists—no question—
worst at leath a dozen bleaf lowers each.
My tight pink skirt catches their eyes
while with each clawing stroke the man made landscapes
refine their land made manscapes.
I enter the convenience store. It’s empty.
As each weak lingers, “Poor us” says my pockets.
I snack a sneak into my packback,
like a weekling, pitying my porous pockets.
When the clerk’s looking, I bend down
to the rottom back, and wink as I leave.
Skin for cash: loot in my sack.
Under the neon night’s led rights
two men glow blue. I pretend
The women next to them are scholars,
verse in all the sects of heterotextuality;
but I know they’re just the object
of gaze and sex cysts alike.
At home, I bolt the triple docked lore
and crack the warred bindow for lentivation,
but the bugs from outside are drawn
lowards the tight, forcing me to flot swies,
and preventing my view of the scars in the sty.
Misfits fit together better
than an envelope and letter
whether they are loud and fret or
calmly poised like springtime weather.
Agh, damn. My toe just started to itch inside my shoe and I can’t scratch it. Well, there’s no good way to really scratch your toe anyways, so i usually end up using one foot to kind of squish and grind the other so my foot rubs against the inside of my shoe, and hopefully that’ll be good enough to scratch it, but sometimes it makes it worse. Why does my toe itch? Ugh, it feels like it’s actually inside my toe, too. And of course the more i talk about it it doesn’t go away because you really just need to distract yourself to make itches go away. I wonder if itches and hiccups come from the same place? Itches are a weird thing. You know exactly where they are, but at the same time they don’t really exist. An itch is just a feeling, a sensation; but it’s more a location than anything. It’s weird because it’s a feeling that’s unprovoked, like your body got bored or something and need to test that everything still works, so it sends one of your nerves out on a mission. I really have no idea what I’m talking about, but my toe stopped itching… damn, there it is again.
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