HIGH ART

I know you can hear this, all of it. Two hours in the clouds they go by. A surprise is a surprise but I’ve got you down. The spirit of my past crouches in the hallway. I hear the ceilings are to die for.

Try again like always right? Don’t stop. Give it get it. Hand it over. The dope shit. Don’t look at me cross-eyed. I’m tired of your crossed eyes.

Crossed eyes film news by ten or eleven before bad dreams appear in the foreground.

Better to be recording your life experience for awhile a little something for the imaginary grand kids. Try again the holiday cruise is squished. Like always right?

On Monday a plane in the friendly skies is better than a derailed train in the desert. Bald men who got over their envy took the scenic route Tuesday. It was a sunny day. The holiday route. When they stopped looking for jobs and dads became the moms and the moms set out to pasture, jewelry store robberies were the norm. If the junior high school nerds could find a place to belong they would’ve destroyed us by now. Why now? Why not now?

I’m tired of your crossed eyes. The ninth unexpected organism is a man resting in a giant salad bowl waiting for his three hookers to arrive. The service in this place is awful and awful. A wrecked house with a shop attached to it wants to know who snuck in and did the art. Put the work in so you can say you did some fucking art. Put the work in so you can say you did some fucking art. High art. The jagged parts.

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