2002-05-24 - 5:14 PM

Syllables crash, complex instruments of sound and speech, combining perfectly in lukewarm literature. Water will only flow in one direction -- upside-down waterfalls and gravity raindrops, carrying your ABC's amoung the homeless debris. A ee eye oh and you (sometimes why), seamless in little spaces, fill in the blank perfect meanderings. Red paint falling continuously in space against a backdrop of crossword puzzles and insightful sightless newsprint. Perfect droplets halting midair like that exquisite shot or a garbage truck smothered in bright wrapping paper.
I am round, full, and firm, a thick-skinned balloon over-stimulated with O2 molecules. Elastic -- snapping back into place as an irrational yo-yo, repeating the same sequence for the echos of a non-existent generation. Pi is to dot dot and dot as an electric river is to me. I overflow and happily lick up the surplus. Red wine residue left in the glass -- some of it always sticks. All the stop signs were washed away in the flood of hyperbole, a hyper bubble with an inner sound system blown into it like cigerette smoke -- it will one day shatter with simotanious sound and soap. But not today.
I spill watercolors over seceret white crayon, I capture what doesn't echo in a jar that will, and I a gamble in the lottery of prepositional parallel lines -- because, somewhere, I know that it is raining. Sometimes, everything flows in one direction: mine.