"Good, she will be walking on the roof," he says. This is dangerous. Merry whistles wave at us, a dingle around the neck of wisdom. Our minds are on the matters at hand: my sister's ears bleeds for wellness, my gubernatorial candidate reads to breed contempt. Phrases are recycled and cleverness is dropped in the description. Phrases are recycled. It does not do its job because our pain pills have switched tactics. They tricked us. Our pain pills were flanking us from the North and from the South. Their generals' whistles whirring in syncopation. And, now, they are uphill, coming down. My sister's ears are still bleeding. But, this time, it is because she would not allow the enemy to shed her blood before she did.
A mixture of darks & lights in a cold wash cycle. True stories and true stories posing as fiction. Hope they don't bleed together and then shrink.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
The Great Gubernatorial War & my sister's ear.
"Good, she will be walking on the roof," he says. This is dangerous. Merry whistles wave at us, a dingle around the neck of wisdom. Our minds are on the matters at hand: my sister's ears bleeds for wellness, my gubernatorial candidate reads to breed contempt. Phrases are recycled and cleverness is dropped in the description. Phrases are recycled. It does not do its job because our pain pills have switched tactics. They tricked us. Our pain pills were flanking us from the North and from the South. Their generals' whistles whirring in syncopation. And, now, they are uphill, coming down. My sister's ears are still bleeding. But, this time, it is because she would not allow the enemy to shed her blood before she did.
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