fwick

"let's try to meditate today" we tried to meditate today for five minutes thinking of nothing concentrating on clearing away arrays and splayed routes like paper routes out of there cobwebs brushed aside cleaned the playing field to play and play and play like the mind's manhattan like the hub the grand central the pearly gates of the greats are open roped in "LET EM IN!" let in the newfound shoes bruised broods and clueless fools and impressionistic folk art the rushing daytrotters slowing totters people met never met maybe will meet tomorrow maybe have always been there and the new ones that stay the remnants of a

They'll find rebellion at the root of every eyelash, copper streaks and silver starbursts in locks of lots of ribbons of hair and pantomime, she does, at the end of the hall on the floor, lavatory bundles when she clutches the bowl wondering "am I here" at all? They'll find all the strange doubled up and half-hidden hit and run passed, blacked, maxed out, and she wonders "was I there" in the bowels of a forgotten night.

For my breath contains an unrealisticsortof quiver, some low thump (baseline) bastes breast into a golden, unbreathablekindof wonderful, never heard in nature (particularly in tune with acoustic guitar) like songs played on records played on speakers or a slowed down symphony, listen, the gasp of substandard perfections.

Social ease did not come easily I'm pleased to be the archetype "other" undefined but by "stranger" like I'm some home grown some negative unknown as if you don't see me in the halls bathroom stalls and the walls around my bed don't touch down in the same landfill yours hit as if a bit of my existence is the "other" and that's it. I'm not offended I just wonder if you'd say the same to a little me, hidden in long hair, green jacket, library lunches, when I wasn't an "other" at all, when I was a _______ and you were still the one casting phrases, nicknames at bigger drifters before I learned to speak because see, social

doing justice somehow by knowing; what I don't remember just became part of the mess I'm currently covered in, wish I could do justice through a story but it's vaguely thinly spread everywhere and everyme; I am history.

there's a kami in the middle of my choco creamy pie and it's only that delicious cause her crust is never dry she's a pastry with a passion in a search for resolution she's a rainy when it's cloudy (just enough to let the pooch in) see I never liked the outer of a pecan pumpkin cherry and my choco- kami covering is cozy crumble'd dairy

the muse is the time of reflection and it's bought with a waytoomuch analysis time I do better physically under none o' concentration but I also like creation

Given the proper materials I will carve into each curve of spontaneous thought, I'll dissect a two-word exchange, a bit lip, a held back smile I'll wonder why the pigeon-toed many are more self-conscious or more hesitant or ready to wage war on a unique lower leg structure, maybe, they're reaching destinations quicker but I'm only after why timely's not desired. Given no proper materials, my toes curve in at just the same angle – like the neanderthal relief of losing the tool.

Went for a walk with other intentions, hopeful glances in his direction til you reached descending elevator, closed doors flaw a fleeting possibility implausible, really, but it twittered as you twiddled down the hall and it smothered softly between the closing metal doors. And now, you have to go on a walk. Your jolting nausea's no way bred from the downward pull of the box, feet locked in gravity's grumble then the rumble of the ground floor's approach. It's cold. It's self-reflection you despise but predictably it tries your stable steps, wondering what the walk might feel like misted by another voice, crisply in the

One day, in a white-faced reflection there might be creased features or lines driving in between a nose that used to be smoother, lips that were plump, eyelids taut and high. Maybe the shock of a scar, or subdued slash where freckles once roamed, blemishes faded, beauty marks pocking away to a sagging earlobe: Once upon a time, there was a girl who never thought she was beautiful and she wore shorts with tank tops, the largest earrings, and dark eye shadow. You don't need to curl your eyelashes when your lids are so dark, you don't need concealer to hide invisible blemishes, and a nose always fits the face it's on (really