Monday, July 11, 2011

Contingent, Thus Unreal

Coffee is no substitute for breakfast. I wrote poetry long before I wrote prose. I can't remember the last sentence, though it resembled something out of Cooper. Commerce corrupts almost inevitably. Necessary evils.

Imagine an embodied erudition. Mother Theresa knew the value of a dollar. The devil's armory contains only doubt, though he does love our inclination to procrastinate. A dog barks, you write. Prose is the presence of architecture, broadly understood.

Turn inward. Risk the fall again and again. These borrowed bodies slouch toward dust. Craft and commerce at the mixer called life. When the dog curls up on the couch, the cat leaps down to the floor.

If it's going to happen, it will. A steady stream of piss to welcome the morning. My hands shook at the keyboard yet my thoughts were fluid and sleek. A certain wariness, a certain readiness is always advisable. Happiness is contingent, thus unreal.

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