January 18, 2004

  • Only a braided, broken consciousness stream is this: don’t read anything into, or if you must, don’t read.


     


    They idiocy with their broccoli, leaves that fall to brown and turn to tea.


     


    The beat of her wing is not as fast as the flicker of my eye, though it excels the velocity of the tear that drops to the floor.


     


    There’s soup in the dungeon, if you’re hungry.  But you must put on the shackles to eat with the crackers.


     


    Explore the vectors of the branches sprawling outwards before the tree becomes your table.


     


    If I’m a little furry thing, I may kill or make love to another little furry thing—depending on its species and its gender.


     


    Words, be kind to me, I’m only trying to exhaust your unprimped, hidden exorbitance.


     


    Every night, before every President goes to bed, he’s given a shot of an anti-suicide drug to rest his shaken head.


     


    Embrace who you are, embrace the world.  Lean unto the stream and kiss Narcissus.  And then let drown.


     


    If all the world were palatably edible, what in the world would you try first that you’ve never tasted before?


     


    Everything’s happening somewhere all the time.  Humanity’s a great simultaneity.  It’s just a matter of intend, effect, and choose.  If you don’t, you lose.

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