moth-eaten already along with 7,000 books you-be-damned air moth-eaten already oblivion waits as a squirrel holds a nut rag mats and bedroom slops this was Flaxman a crawling reverence for money nasty, ladylike tea shop lived to be 1000 illuminated nothing would not sit down cake-scented air far more with cold haste buffalo’s(…)
finally over too his name was Joe his parent’s couldn’t how could a little boy know skeptical of skepticism crook or mystic two spoons self-concerning doubts about her doubt bare winter who can blame strained comforters ‘not a party exactly’ his basketball jersey the architecture of possible some useless god Don isn’t broken(…)
gorgeous liveries more than common truants no narrow gamut or Paula did not decline as her architect the good the gods broken colored glass strong shadows nude, garnished walls
hat at an angel to the school as a school all famous a red nose winter and summer three Andrews old heads too stupid to tell a lie hair and laps ‘it is will’ stumbled and died
they believed in a time when she alone something more liver friendly she read his mind ‘just this once’ car equals limo an embryonic premonition burden of being an only child multi-racist whoredom gruesome threesomes he cools, she lies rehab now surprise, curiosity, pity red trousers turn against our own none(…)
always late summer knew every herb of falling raising him with kisses of fresh chives say Goya’s deafness ‘I wasn’t myself’ through fur trees twelve months they stole my pillow with a silk bookmark
of the past. Walt Whitman somewhere nearby laptops and ringtones Staten Island, of course good girls didn’t go to Brooklyn at Coney Island alive but graying hair like hay
