This Is Not An Advice Blog
everyone I know is moving and my brother is trite bourgeois dog. how do you respond to my postulate that there is no “high road?” - Zach
I was going to ask him who his favorite Language Poet was
but there were too many people around so I took his wine
didn’t drink it or anything, just moved it to another table
—I was in the moment. A car without a radio has not got
that one thing, furniture is like standing on itself without
any recourse for defense, I’m angry that I wasted a cookie
and it wasn’t a cigar so I might walk. And walking is delightful!
or so the poets would have you think, those shitheads
with their variety of voices, persiflaging like they know
what’s good and what’s not, this isn’t authentic dancing unless
oh my god I’m going to faint right after I learn a lesson about
trigger warnings and the shame of being a pretty unsafe dude
overall: like I got my suit and hat and I’m ready to go out
and I’m shaking sincerely because who cares if I’m a totem
when I’m reigning from the throne? And in this instance when
height is not something I care much about, height
being one of many excuses for this stupid set of text messages
I’m not going to answer anymore since you suck anyway
if you think “brunch” is a meal. It isn’t. I’ve had it
up to here with that kind of pessimistic bullshit!
I’m taking to the streets! As in taking a liking and whoa,
whoa, damn, I don’t know how to whistle very well
and I sure as hell was born to die (look, sunsets are alright, but…)
At least 1/3 of these words are from me! They were a gift from my goddamn heart that my fingers wrapped up in wrapping paper and gave to David W. Pritchard for free, and look what weird magic he did with them, like Francis Bacon stuffing cool amazing snow into the cavity of a more or less banal chicken!! It’s good!!!! Yes!! Go!!
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