Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Run to the victory lane with your head between your knees each night before sleep hits you in the face with a sledge. I poke the pole and sit to listen to the ting. I wonder what things used to be like before I decided to forget it all. Would you please pinch me. Wipe that grin from your check with a used napkin. I like the ideas you think when you're alone. I list the properties of matter next to my groceries and wind string around my finger to remind me to hate. To hate the distance. To trash a gated community with a blade of grass.