I had this composed on the inside of my mouth and told the sky and mountains what the taste of these words sounded like. But then I forgot, I ran home too fast and it all fell out of me in the wind. I always forget the things I need or want to say, which I guess is a product of forgetful loving.
"All of literature is impossible to systematically categorize into comprehension. There is no palpable system of understanding for the card catalog of writerly intent."
I wrote you a letter in the globe of a raspberry, even though it's out of season and beginning to snow. Insides circumscribed with faint etchings of recombinant DNA, prisms of light jutting their hips into the world as it floats from my tongue into the sink. Blood streaks in cold water, did you know that?
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1 comment:
Word.
Omous: It was a particularly omous day, full of oms.
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