I sold my predicates
gave away my adjectival clauses. Took a trip to the city of split up and plead. When I tried to locate my mother, I couldn’t hit the target so I relocated. It was like what they say about the geologic curl, all the chert and basalt deciding it needed a Brazilian blow-out. I knew I should go visit Brianne or Darcy, but I just couldn’t bring myself to anywhere but a saloon on the last cobblestone street in Seattle. Effort was the last thing on my mind. Foremost was the fact Jackson Pollak slept until midday, a deer tick riding a five-point buck into splattered stardom. I should have been a sludge cricket, a slender egg, Ophelia’s trophy wife. We all have our billion garden bulls, our fruitions stuck in God’s ditch, but I wanted my emergency window to unhinge, my thought ambulance to screech to a haute. We all have our gourd days and bat days, but I hate it when my violets walk out. And that dead dog’s paw, entombed in Glad wrap, placed beside the meat paddies in the freezer. I don’t think I’d understood, until then, grief. Not one optimistic fleece left in your herd of sheep. I kept the moon, one poem, three nephews, What I couldn’t depose of, I shook off.
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