write this
emmer effer
a pretend genius broadsuction
some days are better than none
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the dictionary of coincidences,
volume i
by manuel darwin



let’s not talk of skeletons while we [together] we [alone] are here. Upstairs at Bella’s I outlined the future and jotted you down with fine penmanship while staring at pictures of hair and honey or what I thought of then as insertion.

We are lonely moving near the place of our future surrender. Coming and then replacing real life jumping.  The girl and the girl in the kilt stove. Breathing a mop of wood, flake and sordid collapse.

She bells the intense coma of slinging.  A pasture of disruption and friendly marbles living.  Her  upright girdle splendor splinters the ram’s nest.  Blink darling.  Blink.  The pied-à-terre amalgam of rooster.

Her name is Jeffamar and she purports to be unsung.  Screeds of two laps curtailing the axiom of vanishment. 

andventures of the cornbread maker

divide the reich and press our interests in the north. 

Renumber the planets and bring them lovely.  Hirosito Kamasashi is a comic book fighter.  Oolong Hirosito.  Lumps of plum and dilly.



Shall I make a memory of thine fissure and strike at the breast of merriment? Oh noble chameleon of many coloured hues, tinges, and shades. Yonder.

dear momma,

it’s been a long time since I have writen but I want you and everyone to know that I am all rite here. Everbodys’ been wonderfull and last nite I had vanila ice cream for desert. I brought my robe with me on acount that you told me it woud raise my self asteem if I walkt around in it and pretented I was a vammpire or somethin like that cause of monsters bein’ afraid of other monsters in the dark and if’n I was a monster then there ain’t nothin to be afraid of in the dark. It was just like you said momma. Ain’t nobdy even messin with me and I’m a warin the robe all off the time now even when I’m outside and doin work. They try to make me not ware it but they ain’t got no rules about what I can ware here and I hippotize them any ole way and now they all walkin’ aroun like ghosts.


caroma sink

the windows and doors of her steamy southern plantation house. A rare draft. The sticky bodies of her slaves.

The day was pictures.  And no words neither because of the dark.  Lifting companions on a single flinch.  A corporal dissension among the hierarchy club.  Here where we walk subdued and circle maybe in yes.


dreams of terrible angels

two lovers in the snow. Two lovers framed by jade (color). Two lovers pierced by the sword of a mighty rhododendron (flower).

Gone good are days of long and lonely suffering when the window shingles (fermata, algernon, and caribou) conspired with words like reckon or dragoon master willister to confound us. Ours was the house seen from the road. But only the back door and the bedroom window above, framed by trees on either side. If you had a pretty dress mother or one moment to rest upon the stairs I would have told you that not far from here I impressed a girl by saying: ‘the trumpet is the most beautiful sculpture I’ve ever seen’.


ermine stroodle

the dream-like sequence, the basis of all conversation, is an example of a near-perfect combination of form and function that provides an environment in which people can exist [live]. Rules are established of what can or should be said and of what cannot or should not be said. In turn, expectations are met, practice is rewarded, and humans may interact in relative safety.

We’re on a ship that’s sinking and you and I move away from where the water’s filling. They’ll bring a fire truck on deck to put out the fire. It’s a long ship and there’s lots of space. But we’ll have to jump over. Near the ship there’s a pond and we see pond things while we’re swimming underneath. Storybook pond things that invert words like vespertine (from the viny) or crepuscular just for this sense. It looks like an old city but it’s just an old town. And when the Indian sailors come rowing over to tell us how they fixed her up, we’ll tell them to row back because we’ll be staying here a while. We’ll say ‘you’ll find us waiting here Mathilda, our sweat collecting in the creases of a bamboo porch.’  It could be the land of turtles or the land of underneath water. But we are a relevant species, scraping chum along the briny, humming jingles while flowers bloom from the bottom of our shoes.