I feel so deeply sickened. What is really to be done alone? Or by two or by twenty two? The poor poet is too quiet, and can not be loud enough. Never could. The painter plays in a bath of color and matter. The plumber is late. The waitress is tired. There are wheels with bald treading turning the highways, daring, but not risking, the lives of their passengers. With every revolution they ask to be felt, to be weighed and changed. Sooner or later, the wheels will stop. In the meantime...here is the mailman, and the bills. Once I looked forward to letters from friends...
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I feel so deeply sickened. What is really to be done alone? Or by two or by twenty two? The poor poet is too quiet, and can not be loud enough. Never could. The painter plays in a bath of color and matter. The plumber is late. The waitress is tired. There are wheels with bald treading turning the highways, daring, but not risking, the lives of their passengers. With every revolution they ask to be felt, to be weighed and changed. Sooner or later, the wheels will stop. In the meantime...here is the mailman, and the bills. Once I looked forward to letters from friends...
The conversation continues here. My blog. Come?
Between a steak and weeping.
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