#2

digress long enough and the path reintroduces itself exactly where whatever shouldn’t happen begins. a warbling sky alerts to what might yet be if things go according to plan. on a sunday is such a cliche, sashaying this way and that with that fey crown of thorns. um, it’s lowkey kinda a male manipulator move to hold over people’s heads something no one asked for. lots of people got crucified. leave your stupid business of miracles and start fucking up the moneychangers or shut up mr. bigshot clickityclackety yackittyyackity talk lots of smackitty keep coming backitty apply for a math degree to see if there are any available. what’s to stop. puerile pimps, sipping a mix of aperitif and digestif (they call it dinner), ask “why did quetzalcoatl go away?” fools in love with the possibility that not everything is known and thank the lord it is so. pilloried for the filigree adorning these, ya sabes, capisce? it’s an open secret. what will tomorrow be? coordinated. rock the cradle, for it is full of tragicomic carmelites. sister, pray, answer a query—fair warning, it is a little coarse…