a bastardized shotgun approaches soft air

quintessential jaws on a thursday night and the precious pard on moi reminder sent me stepping streetside dashed with spirits a singing waits et al wanting salivation s leather shovel gloves wondering what decade is this spring and calling mo towns to find that static most preferred from out which dreaded ten s tower drippings bring widest flares to ducking breasts and goose liver steps too i ask you about a decade of spring can spring be this long for you must i say a watery air sidling up gravely to our sharp dry wild bite of damn living things what is your dance floor picture what bells do you see ringing none at all electronic what bells vinegar has your spring for the who and me sorry intrusion into the solo have i poisoned your ripe mind has anybody here seen my old pop where are you now this spring hiding get together in a happening this this wild cold millennial spring could feel how does it FEEL for your country *** at the report impossible to believe we go on in ways impossible to keep believing the relevance of music s dying seems beyond all but pundits ensconced like jewels in proud dark golden settings as bright as labor s tragedy so who can believe that trust spins in worlds oblivious to aging but where youth full grows all the more suspicious it and things seem to pop up all the time and once popped all buttered down something awful but it s a weeknight and we must go to bed early as the work we do sings as the spring comes like history s fuck upsometimes you find a piece of paper that you spent a few moments attacking while trying to follow your path but you are pausing looking and feeling about the word as it is made so anyway..i admitted it and felt some more Written March 9th, 2002 © on Mar 09 2002 09:56 PM PST, Frederic Jacob Gutknecht IV   10 • 0 • 14