I am not sure knowledge is pure and this is troubling me today. So you say spoonbread and I’ll take that. But knowing is only the half of it, can you tell I’m reading Emily D? She is my little pincer.
So don’t take offense.
It’s busy bearing down and writing tinges of things, tired of explaining everything. But I’ll tell you to drop all the crap, the goat is not a story. It is part of the Perverse Dream, like swimming is too. This is sharp advice I know but my face is cutting and it feels good.
So dream something else Nicky. The bottles rolling on the floor, the glass bottles with ships inside, you aren’t a Sailor anymore so don’t. I’m trying writing the same, a straight line, and failing yes always failing but I am a quiet person intimating a room, different when you see me next time I might wear my hair longer.
Loving you is tired too, I’ve made that quiet. Can you find the delicate in that? It is without irony I’m writing home and even though we are a running joke, this splitting of stories won’t do. So rest a little, give your heart to thinking. Don’t deliver anything in a story because you box yourself out, you make movies with the words and it’s not right.
As is, I’m not writing without exodus, watching a delicate face turn bone. Did you know there was a body buried in my front lawn? Hundred years ago, it was an armory and they found guns on the roof and a body with boots on it, a knife in his back. Me and Jimmy listened and it was an interesting day to be outside, there were clouds.
I feel like a strumpet as I was telling Mom, I’m fucked in the jaw. I’m tired of lists and just when I want to say something the mountain appears. Birdie voices pinned to a tree. This is one, things exploded and you in the breezeway.
I have new love and he staples me like a crocodile and no, he isn’t keeping me but he does have a watch that you’d like to wear.