Sunday, November 9, 2008

Lost Lumpen Nattie

Our lost lumpen Nattie will now sliver North its raw need. We fried our bagels in butter then smothered them with cheese and ate them standing up.

Tony snuck wine from the basement and after we smoked cigars where the river turned slowly in the balsamy summer night. Haircuts defined as a form of torture.

A desire for the sacred that was at times so secret it wasn't even accessible. Any piece of writing begins to gather around points of energy, accretions.

The dream of this or that always trumped the doing. Dungeons and dragons was perhaps the most perfect blend.

I orchestrated the firing of any musician who intimidated me. Bologna sandwiches drabbed with mustard stung the eyes.

I have no memory of diapers. David marched up the hill going home and my mother said I should get him but I preferred to let him go.

I thought knuckles were always scarred? Crossing Route 112 to Sam Hill Road was like stepping back in time to the nineteenth century.

You could enter the forest by two paths, one for hunting and one for picnics. Baseball was undoubtedly a metaphor in those days but for what.

He idolized the old farmers to detriment. One was always fighting a late hour.

Scales don't matter, it's the notes you play. Anything most certainly does not go.

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