How Much I Miss Her. Coat.

It's fairly rote to reorganize my love for her,
this being something a normal human being might do
at night trying to sleep, or perhaps while trying to accept his old mistakes.

Some girls laughed as we took a photograph outside Tiffany's, and I did ask her if they were trying to 'make fun'.

"No," she had said. "They are not."

I smiled back at her, and showed her the rest of the city. "What next museum?" I would say, sarcastically, and she would just make me go to actual displays of art I was not yet trained for.

I miss her so much. Like the photograph at Tiffany's.

Miss her intellect, and her mind. And how cool she was

The Baby Explains About Ears

Somebody had been shot in an interracial war outside their house. She knew that it was something about who has a better videogame or something, but she did not know the exact detail. I mean, I'm sure the kid that was shot, and the kid who had actually gone all the way and shot that kid who got shot knew about it, but she didn't know -- shit, it's hard enough being a single mother in the projects. Let alone a single mother of six children.

The sixth one began to cry. She entered the code so thirteen-year-old Janis could go onto the internet, and then she gave 11-year-old Charlie some money to go buy some firecrackers. "There is a reason that those things are banned," she told him. "I'm giving you this money in the hope -- the pure hope -- that you won't misuse it."

When all was said and done, she finally attended to the baby in the middle of the living room. She put a blanket over its body, as it had requested, and then added those nitrous oxide injection units to each of the casters of his pram. "See," she said to him, soothingly. "Mummy wasn't away anywhere else. Mummy was right here."

The baby smiled and took the gift. But then he said "I have Ears, you know?"

She froze. "You don't have ears, baby."

"I have Ears!" he said, stubbornly.

Wtf? How was this even possible, that he knew about ears? She got down, and hung out with him, on his personal level. "Who told you about ears, baby?" she asked.

"I know about ears," said the baby, miserably. "I know how they are such wonderful organs, how exquisite the formations are. How there are canals."

She could not do anything except nod. "Yes. They are designed really well." She looked around to see if any of the other kids had been teasing him so cruelly.

The baby pressed the nitrous oxide button his mother had just installed for him, and ran over her foot. "It's not designed!" he shouted.

Then something amazing happened. Too bad nobody caught it on tape, but there's this vision of this crazy baby on nitrous, in a pram, whizzing around the whole fucking living room and talking about evolution.

Bert

I saw an epitaph with a single name,
all it said was ‘Bert’, engraved, just ‘Bert’.
What is wrong with being named ‘Bert’?
Why is it such a social issue? Why is Bert

so evil?

Usually poetry has some kind of form or rhyme or meter.
or whatever — but poems about Bert have no such structure.
Bert, an evil entittty, can proceed ‘Willy Nilly’, a song about
whales that he likes to bring up often.

so evil.

Like I say, his gravestone has been carved here for anyone
to come and see (before bedtime for little babies). Like I say,
we used to share an apartment together for ages. Rubber Ducky?
We used to have a Rubber Ducky. Where is that now, Bert?

Where did you put it? Meter and rhyme?

so evil!

wonderful sunday mornings with you

most of the time i'm an accident except less exciting,
but on wonderful sundays when you go off to make coffee
cos you can't drink orange juice,

i imagine your life as a normal person, having woken.

most of the time the incidents have too many 'I's,
world looks a little bluer than the rgb allocation
i allocated, i thought i had allocated ...

the rgb, but it's not about me, it's about you, having woken.

what are you, a geneticyst or a very clever biologist,
which is why i asked you who richard dawkins really is.
so we might have a conversation,

but fine, go and have your coffee, by yourself. don't talk to me.

No, it's really all cool. Go for it.

The Dexter 'Fan-Fic'

Spooiler Warnengh.

This is a service for all the peepullz who can never be allowed to watch Dexter. (On their tvs).

So obviously Quinn is going to die. Symmetry with Dokes.

"Yeah," she said. "Why not?"

Let's just kill Angel and the Chief of Police or whatever, too.

"Whoa, whoa. Hold on ..."

Nine birds, one stone.

"Why am I always put in quotes?"

Because you're not even real.

"I am real. I'm the part of you that wants you to admit you are a psychopathic killer who as put poor Dick on the path to committing Crazy Murders.

Heh, Dick.

"Wtf, he is a great actor."

What is the point of this again?

"Who are you going to end up killing?"

I don't know. Don't really care. Whatever is most appropriate.

"Hah! 'Appropriate'. How is murder ever 'appropriate'?"

Maybe if your name is Quinn and you lie in symmetty with Dokes?

See mm tty? ;)

Now that was a bonafide joke. Doakes. How the fuck do you end up spelling your name?

I can probably get rid of yoga instructors real quick too.

energy like a porsche

dying man's choice of car? what?
mid-wife crises?
mid-story issues, perhaps:

we are here to solve your problems.

torus. bull. lion or tiger. sword.
the sword is something always wielded,

in these discussions about your past.

Fiddle The Violin

"What is this, a joke?" he asked, in his Male persona.

"No," said the Female persona. "Take your violin out of the bag."

He pulled the instrument from its casing, but kept it safe from the distance of her vagaries. He brushed it, now and again, and one of the times, he even made it a corporation, allowing the entity ability to get its shoes shined at a 34th Street Subway Station, by a real-life-legit shoe-shiner.

"Play the violin," she instructed -- a sort of command. He shook his head, saying "No."

"Come on," she said, and now she started strip-teasing him. "Witness the sexiness," she said, parting various articles of clothing from her Body. He held out for as long as he could, but obviously, he was unable to hold out for too long, and so he took his violin, and began playing it as she got naked in front of him.

When he finished his song, she was sitting there like an elongated painting, and she asked if he knew any newer or better songs.