What I’m trying to say is that if an experience is bent into a sandy beach it might be better presented as a Christmas present than a poem.
Me, I like to drink coffee and roll around on the floor until someone scratches my belly.
I ceased worrying about maturity long ago. It didn’t even appear on my radar. I worried about character. Character is a good thing. Character is fundamental. Feeling is paste.
The difference between men and women is milky with ambiguity.
It isn’t always about genitalia. Sometimes it’s a matter of glass slippers and dawdling around a 7-11 at dawn, waiting for Igor and the Count to arrive. There is no behavior that can be described as singularly male or female. What there is, is this: prickly collars, participles, and skin. The push toward absolutes. The anxiety resulting from not finding any absolutes.
Fourteen months after the accident at Fukushima Daiichi, a pool brimming with used fuel rods and filled with vast quantities of radioactive cesium still sits on the top floor of a heavily damaged reactor building, covered only with plastic, says the New York Times.
We all live under the sword of Damocles. The foot of a chair, the back windows with a view, the edge of a table, corals, water, round glass, fish, these are some of the elements casted in this world of strangers. Welcome to the Aquarium!
Mushrooms flourish in the nimble swell of a lollipop brassiere. Accept it as a symptom, a sign of quivering disembodiment, the kind of disease that begins in the ego and ends in the planetarium, where the universe swirls around your head in the form of a million gazillion stars, and spasms of escape from the thralldom of work assume an astronomical urgency.
Disunion of production and consumption is a common enough occurrence. But how does one remain sane and balanced in the midst of all this hallucination?
The cowboys call it Pulling Leather: holding onto the saddle horn to keep from getting thrown when a horse is bucking.