the poor man's spinach

i ate kale, but before that there was a tornado. really! the kind of weather ominous enough to make you simultaneously afraid of being in the world and afraid of leaving.

i have the most hysterical idea: let's i'll draw all your muscles on the outside of your body, then everything toward inside, marrow, ideas, the cells of ideas, the atomic sleep of knee jerks, send it skyward all in the wrong color, all sickly dreaming. hamstrung? no such thing. on loan? closed; too hot; too shy; too brightly turning. fever pants into the pool and her father comes out wielding. weirdly. her father comes out hugs for safe keeping; wire hanger for his graduated thoughts; pull those fucking pants up and make the right sounds. you know the ones; your fucking pants, fulcrum resting outside the county line; fulcrum between pity and sausage sandwich; fulcrum be bygones, let the VCR gently catastrophize, quiet, record, quietest, let it. gingham upholstery quite the measurable goal; a real meat and potatoes piece of rhetoric; let's i'll, look: let's meet between force and the flexion adjacent my fragrant nigerian. some would call it canal; others debate the slant--the sleep--the sleep caffeined into pitter patterns; can't stop laughing about the weather.


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