Wednesday, October 6, 2010


Lily post one hundred fifty.


Lately my thoughts are tumbleweeds.


Wisps of string in the wind a spider on the windshield a boulder learning to swim. My thoughts. They're fighting like tiny misshapen little grunts without weapons and crappy aim. I can at least throw a fit, but Aim seems to be in the lounge lounging well with a martini and cigar.


My thoughts solve life with bold dashes of intricate calculation in the low tide's smooth sand.


I sit here shuffling through words and ideas like a junkie with just one more pill somewhere.


What I am trying to say is that the Carousel spun too fast and until I stop seeing garish horse heads with jewel-trashed manes, and rubies and emeralds and diamonds and gold amid a spiral of colored lights, my little narrative voice will continue screaming.


We brushed Lily and out came tufts of puffy tan undercoat. Suddenly she is slim and dark. Strange.


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