Blessed are the times I lost me keys. They were signs I made. They were flashing.

Blessed are

Blessed are the horsey days, the gay stringy days, the horse in your court, tennis days, the surefire ride home thru wildernesses neither dense nor trim, wan sun setting on my trophy days.

Blessed the days before, sweater sets, pay, the more and less playing out in narrow parameters, parking garages, they apply themselves and rise hightower days, name tags, yes mam.

Days made ancient with wind. Days amories unleash secret chambers, knives in the lawn, therein between ribs, railroad ties. Aloft, doorless days of swaying curtains, the swamp cooler of days, evaporative spray, walking a poodle thru dusty streets.

Tucson, my mother’s day, my bones one bone with you. Tucson, down dog, down washed out river road. The combing my head of days, sticking the knot. Tucson, who made and placed and lost Frank. Who made a record. Who ravishes the discord of days. Who sold his books back.

The voices of foxes filling my days, divorce and unseemliness, with this or that paring, a rare morning alone with a book in the lawn. Just look at me, day. Duras, Duras! Born like a word caught on thistles, born in infinite divisiveness. Born bearing the wetness under my arms, I take everything back. I apologize.

Home park. Moonlight. Days they were birds pinned to the trees. Shaken awake.

Blessed this laundry on my bed. To be folded days. To not be. Articulated somehow and addressed afterward, for the first time, on a lonely stump. My day, the moss on which somethings are felt, are green, stink. The wet and blow dry. The shitting of birds on my hair.

Blessed are the unctuous encumbered bikini days. They appear too small. They slumped. Days chained to beautiful clippings, pedicure days, a collage of others stapled to the night.  Days and days in my head. Black out.

Blessed are the times I lost me keys. They were signs I made. They were flashing.

Blessed are the work weeks, on the shoulders of clients, bags are flaps on my facing, days armed, grandmother sweaters. It is always cold inside. It is perpetual.

Blessed are the parts we winged. The skimming of days, bullet points, the days in perpetual download. The days I towed the line and hid my windows. Whistling dixie. Blessed erasure of days, pure snow. If you move you die. This tool, this headmap.

The horn of my days growing out of my head. I am the goat. I am in tow. I am headed to the northwest side of the city. The side of the city least felt. Days I locked my doors against.

Portions and portions and portions.

There are bleating goats on the  wheelbarrow. They are unchained. They are furious.

Party days in utter bewilderment. A roost, a roster of days. 93 bodies. The day after slapped on the the day before. Our bodies are objects. Our bodies are posters. The notion of no-blood is true-blood, truck’s coming. they are coming for us, for our soft blood drawl. elephantine. filamentous. A hoary excuse for a vampire.

Blessed turkey, blessed ham. Blessed hammer in my head days pounding the dough to rise. Fishing which side of the dock to fish the most fish on. Which side of the rain to play “I’m yours” in the car. In the back seat. In the sheets smelling slightly of mildew. On the wraparound porch that wraps around France. I have a thing in my head for the family table. For bickering chickens, for shit attitudes. In the hue of the heads I have been seven forever. I have been seven until I turned 31. The trees bend toward me. My rainbow forest.

Blessed economy of days plus or minus. The dowager days, corn on the cob.  Day one again. Day one again. Day one again. If i had an orchard, I’d work til I’m sore.

Many admitted and many declined.

Days of eerie jections.  Cheese dicks.

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