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(Untitled Work in Progress) ;and I swore that it had been all of six months or sevenican’tyellatthem before she brought a trite philosopher to ride as designated persona non gratta, against (whom she’d filed grievances) anyone’s better judgment, otherwise gossiping (since he’d once been the lecher, now expected to absolve and purify her wandering index fingers) --and I gathered that the sot had lost his saving grace, that his lint-filled pockets would have no seams-- about some overwrought and heavy-footed Amos fan who chased the Goddess to Cincinnati & who found Her bloodless. -- so she would-have’d her inadequacy to mend briefly-- She begged him “dismiss,” but he’d taken vows that (her accusations were confident) fortified the ideal to shoot any self-proclaimed Buddha, so he felt his hands grow holes and shuddered. (The idiot. . .) --the tied hands and sore fourth finger-- (. . .raised his hand to profess a belated love-lust, praised Tori’s sugar’d hands, had foresight enough to save the comb as a candy-boxed souvenir. i listened to them with my pen, and thought it better to show them other people’s poetry in adulterated bar-lines.) or someone on the trip remembers the pleading, the justification of months lost in monotone when he slept with reptiles under his eyes and not her. the objector/poet listened with more than justified selectiveness, and isolated his left hand (his subsequent drunkenness would dissolve status for a while, and twoness of his own got its day, too ephemerally focused for the tasks of his own making) remembers the grimacing passers-by as they selectively listened to her challenge their deduction, our Feste still lies aghast at his own presumption lets his Ohioan quill dry, and stares into them (when i admit him, you’ll stop straining your insight) and when she screams her last aphorism, we recognize a dissociate curmudgeon with a monogrammed poem and picks his teeth with a feather |
Additional Notes:
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