i didn't know what to do with all this cheap gossamer

the serving of drinks: misreading the movement of the wrist

dearest ligature:

i write this to inform you of the state of our union.

we follow diphthongs and call them tuesday brunch (no responsibilities but to our own poached intentions and creme fraiche).

we open doors, we uncork bottles of 10am champagne. as a child i imagined intimate inter-weavings of curve and corner. my aunt and uncle called me lolita and i thought it was simply a name they liked. lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tail trailing from mandible to the cratering peninsula between ilia.

when serving a traditional morning punch, the pitcher's handle should fit snuggly in the hand so as to survive any grand gestures of the arm. while bent at the waist, bent at the knees, offer a bit of helpful information. "Here's a little phrase for you in the German language: 'essen mein scheiße, fraulein.'"

we are partners in a multitude of sins, and it is only when forced to pause and take a stalk from the glass--to cross and uncross legs--that the view from beneath a skirt can be captured in our paper and ink engagement. there are many desires between the here and the there, and inevitably a discussion of opportunity costs must periodically surface: well-seasoned, plenty of heat, don't go easy on the vodka.

piercing membranes

passed through small villages of angles--this morning served itself like a 1-up flying off some fallen and trampled grains. when they went out onto the path they were like a catepillar of laces and boning, one pair at the crossing ribbons, one pair at the next, 4 ladies in corsets.

this little piggie went shopping, this little piggie starved, this little piggie gathered a small army of komrades to forcibly cinch her waist into a shape more desirable.

this piggie is holding out for a better deal. this little piggie is a sausage stuffed into a sweater. this little piggie builds elegant software...firmware...the hardest thing to wear.

multiphoton excitation

...was the image. i took this dish of live but sloughed cells (doesn't make any sense, does it my petit shoe,) polaroided my way into differing levels of bent and bending lights.

colors:

• urantia is of wilted poppies;
• mesmerize and polyglot are often debated, since they are so close in hue.
• quarterly is what you turned when walked-in on by the child in the bathroom (pull your ankles up!)
• i once pretended to care if his shirt was cerveza or spindlebrooke--they are basically the same, but asserting the difference was what allowed us the 3 minutes to become acquainted with the idea of sleeping with each other. that and how do you do, sir?

before the lens you were small and uncomplicated, a series of semi-permeable walls. but now, ahah! this is not the end. so soon and yet so far away.

the genesis of imagining new ways to hold protoplasm (grape, cherry, blue raspberry...) is simply an issue of states of matter.

it's all mitochondrial, my dear watson.

the object's the thing

fold back into the space--these are precursors to definitions like DHA and omega-3's. love of the object draws me near and draws me away:

the tide is a limitless apology, lapping up onto the ankle. wanting the screen is not the same as wanting the page but wanting, the page wants itself...over and over again.

and i will deny it. i will press my cheek and temporal lobe, the crest of my forehead against the glass teddybear of a plane. pushing my face perpendicular until i gain entrance, pushed through and redoubled again.

the line drawn between bits and light is a matter of semantics.

begin.