Monk: Are we building something?
I swear the girders weren’t here yesterday.
Thistle: Hm, don’t think so.
You don’t have any paint.
Monk: What’s paint got to do with it?
Thistle: Good question. Let me ask my thesaurus.
Says here a girder is like a beam.
Monk: Oh, well that changes everything.
I seem to have burnt my envelope, oh dear.
Now how could that have happened?
I rolled out of bed, put the iron on a curtain,
then oh…
Now the house is gone.
Family too. Went to Pittsburgh.
I have to clean this for myself.
Well, I’ll probably just hire someone;
a contractor with a crew and equipment.
I’ll go to a hotel, eat the chocolate
on my pillow. I hope it’s filled with mint.
Create an image with no prior knowledge and you feel the vibrance of your purest thoughts. What good is research for innate ideas? To compare yours with others? For what purpose? We’re all tuned for our own world filters, and inferring conclusions from differing views only serves to separate and dilute experiences.
If you truly wish to create, you begin with your inner image. You don’t look at your predecessors when you’re about to make something. Do you think that’s how they did it? Perhaps to understand the breadth of the craft and better utilize the medium, but not to create their own unprecedented works.
Trust your intuition and connection with whatever it is that you like to call your inspiration / muse / God. You know what feels right for your method and execution. Pursue it.
Bent twiggy licking finger midgets hover tomorrow, but not when the ice cream truck stalls on the corner. Never when the ice cream truck stalls on the corner.
But you know the time has blossomed when those rats reach out for their most, you know that time has blossomed.
Rugs roll themselves into Lake Superior, Lake Superior frowns upon them. Under the toe of a mighty Joe Stallion, we roll through our river walk with a mischievous grin, mischievous grin.
Cringe and throttle that barrel-necked orphan cherry.
Cringe and throttle that barrel-necked orphan cherry.
Enrage. N rage.
Roast the hidden extrovert.
Suspended below the tight rope walker,
a four-pound grapefruit–laughing.
Not for its countrymen, not for its love.
Not for its bulbousness.
For its deceptiveness and strange bitterness.
So here’s the gist, here’s the deal.
We have a lot of people making their spiel
about a guy who really didn’t do much in his life
aside from the living part, the kids and wife,
for what reason? He didn’t want to be ridden with guilt
and approach conversations on six-foot stilts.
He wanted peace, he wanted quiet, the kind of space to think,
in a world of vast opinion where individual liberties shrink
into untold recesses of ill-defined emotional junk.
So he grabs for his childhood, that meaningless chunk
setting him up for an average haze;
and now this last line rhymes with days.
A tall man wearing a grande espresso ring stole my attention from a tarpaulin-wearing socket wrench-eating groundskeeper.
Where the distinction crosses my overworked plane still lies in the forbidden zone, though I surmise someone kept their turtle bracelet a day too long.
As long as everything flips hydrophobia under invoice paneling, your undernourished calcium ducts should respond with vim and vigor.
WHARVED 