Wednesday, June 29, 2011

In A Store That Sells Umbrellas

Earlier I cooked liver and sausage, hunting through the pantry for some raisins. She once said of herself, I can't keep my damn mouth shut, can I? A gutted mouse on the trail, a stunned look in its black marbled eye. One can't complain about orchards in a store that sells umbrellas, can they.

We all want to be supported in a way that measures our contribution. What would those German medieval theologians have to say about your struggle with low self esteem? We scattered pine boughs around the hen yard, hoping to minimize the odor. A door a day keeps relationships at bay.

And boiled coffee which, in order to make it drinkable, required so much sugar as to nearly become a syrup. I wonder if that park bench I slept on is still there, the one where I wrote those lines to you that I still love. The bottom of the sea has always struck me as useless pablum. I do remember holding hands in Albany and fighting the tears I knew were visible in the dashboard's funky glare.

A Zen approach to exercise that one later decided defeated the point. At twilight, the laundry seems to glow. I asked God for an answer and got a fantasy to which the answer was merely a footnote. As you probably figured out, I'm drinking again.

The mud room was a repository for lost keys. He borrowed a tie for the tea party and later admitted that it was just to impress a girl. Illusions are no less troubling. Part of growing old means being willing to die by the railroad tracks alone.

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