for their late spring
for their late spring
1. See the MALM. Her limbs are blonde and thin.
2. Strip forth of her corrugated cardboard chrysalis such leafings as pertain to some new genesis and upon whose pumiced vellum smiles one more hollow wordless scar of man.
3. Discard these.
Begging the Question: “But I want it.” No shit, honey. I could tell that you wanted it when I said “no” and you started crying. But as I explained the last time, this point amounts to saying the proposition is true because the proposition is true (A=A∵A=A[???]).
crack almond shell ribcages
and milk powder elbows.
Let us go then in 1880,
to collect a donation of the hair of Edward II
"We want more than proof of concept, gentlemen. I don’t get up at five in the morning to see a bunch of Neanderthals bearing a theoretical resemblance to a winning infield. I don’t care about the variability of a bad hop. The game is played with rules and within lines. I follow a process, and you will too. There is no art in baseball."
Reminder #1: Always Remain in Character.
This reminder is mostly for Santa, because of The Suit, and doesn’t often apply to you directly, since you are not dressed as an elf. As it turns out, working at Santa’s Playland requires you to wear all black. You show up everyday for your 13-hour shift wearing black slacks, a black T-shirt, a black Gap cardigan, and brown boots. But then black boots because your footwear mattered enough to get you in trouble and you were asked to visit a shoe store on your 30-minute lunch break.
You had this dream repeatedly as a child that there was a spider lady who lived in your basement and talked on your wall phone waiting for you to come downstairs so she could gobble you all up, one agonising appendage at a time.
The rope does not move. It lies at my feet, as inanimate as a skipping rope should be, like a snake skin shed of life. I am eight. I concentrate. I will the rope to move. I am in the school’s sports equipment storage room, a nook beside the stairs to the third floor.
“I love you.”
Oh shit, thinks Natalie.
James stands on the mauve and white carpet of the motel with a helpless grin on his face. Natalie tries to smile, sheepishly she hopes, and pulls him in for a hug. Not a “condescending pat-on-the-shoulder” kind of hug, but a “oh, hun, it’s cute that you think so” sort of hug. Definitely not the “I love you, now we’re face-sucking” hug James goes for.
I Don't Wear My Glasses to the Gym and Someone Finally Told Me That My Workout Buddy Has Been a Sack of Potatoes in a Nike Shirt All Along.