A Nietzsche Family Circus

For the woman, the man is a means: the end is always the child.

the end, in suburbia, is brown soap on the cheeks.

Boy is back in town

there is a starling that chirps and clicks away at my window, perched on the tree next to my third story window. it clicks, like starlings do, in a testimant to Shakespearian silven glenn. it watches for the mailman as he climbs over the car batteries that sometimes migrate onto my sidewalk.

Soul skullking...

panache

bob felt the prick inside the toenail.

freighters and foreigners haunt the night around here. you'd never think it, but then again who'd have thought a lot of things.....many things were never plausible.

I still feel ghosts.

passed frivolities

“Yeast, you’re covered in it.”



Water the aloes, quench the healing-sap.

I de-terraformed the mound next to my front window. It’s no more than a mound, not even fit for rosin or cleats. Hectic hectic hectic; I foresaw myself in a year’s time and I was both miserable and happy. (Of course it’s as vague and clichéd as a New Yorker article bleeding over the top varnish of a film connoisseur's mahogany wine-chest) I attained tunnel vision two nights ago, followed by 3 moments of clarity, though I realized, in actuality, it was only 2 moments. The second moment was really a false sense of mediocrity. When things really click inside the gearbox, you have to watch out for the potholes and apathetic bikers who meander into your headlights. They should know better and ride in the slipstream.