So I’ll give it to you straight.

September is for Thursdays. Or Mondays. Or whatever. It’s for lounging about the apartment after you’ve done half the reading for the next day (the other half will be read or not-read, depending).

But right now, at this second, you’re thinking about stone (note: Jane says poets can’t use the word “stone” anymore). Fuck Jane. Or fuck stone. Or take them both to the large mountain beside your house and relieve yourself.

This reminds me of the way a mountain will shout at a storm and the storm turns into a chicken. Does this make any sense? I’m talking about mind over matter… or worse… the weather here. The monsoons rising like weird love letters, jamming up traffic. Have you ever written a love letter in the desert? Neither have I. Because sometimes, saying something is exactly like not saying anything. Other times, not saying anything creates a blur between two people that want to kill each other. So. In conclusion.

There’s a way of saying things that eludes even a chicken. Cluck cluck cluck.

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