Get Insomnia, Wave Me Away: A Binary Confessional at the Chew and Screw
Froth on Yojimbo’s desk. A decaf set out, let loose. We abound in duty, negatives, at the thought of the thought of it. Some turn the cobra in the air. My salt lick tests all my limits, and suddenly it is forbidden. When the engineer laid out plans, I saw piles with nothing to them. All the duchesses suddenly gasped, half out of ceremony. This one looks kind of like my aunt. Normally doesn’t go for sweet stuff. Terrified, I offer to be the doctor. The boring kind with cute boots. Always looking down. On a moon of jupiter, the telegraph has been corrected so it plays Orinoco Flow again, beginning to end, on repeat, the sound sounds ragged. Space is just like that. Cheap, a burden, I am taking off the mudflaps. The valves are fine and the kingfisher still likes to perch there, just like a typhoon banshee. A stalker of fine underwear. Tell me, supposedly. And I disappear. Pretend. Supposedly. In the night moves basement, I reappear. Torn jeans, it’s a mixed bag. There is the tongue. Right behind the pinhole, twisting out on special eclipse days. My mouth forms a torqueless steamshovel. A tourniquet wrapped around a thrush’s beak. Sing on summer days, raise a glass to the Pflueger in an old-fashioned way. Be sentimental, tears.