Space/Between

The porch with (usual) bushes. Makes a white then monarch butterfly through power lines. This street, street before, now covered in marks where repair makes cars functional. Victor street sounds so much like victory: ha, you street.

The catalogue of good poets gets pissed around like after a few beers. My Pope, my Homer.

And hope is secret for just getting a word in on how it ______ be. Name that secret the squirrel fleeing the only oak tree for all the street. St not quite an acronym but a place holder. The bushes facsimile dreadfully a smell.

Not days or hours anymore, but a month of this. Cut the morning and paste it above the evening and a day makes for reading those famous poets (not only for tests but also for pleasure). And the word poet and famous makes a lot of sense. They see trees, too. All the folks walking under them. Not that something useful can’t be made: paper!

Can city be city when infected by city proper so intravenously? The sudden butterfly moans a “make it concrete and you can.” And so. So, X all the abstracts and the butterfly is there again. Moaning again. Complaining again about its flight patterns and how these are not the flight patterns it thought they would be while in the cocoon. And that moaning.

A note taped on top of my note to myself: get drunk tonight and watch something on television. I’m beginning to analyze and understand this. I tape it to the hidden part of the original note in code: do not expire entirely. Make use.