Funneled whispers of fennel through the open sore
Called upon the scent again of that Little Tokyo store
Strolling aimlessly with mighty aim
Upon close inspection, methinks it needs salt.
Dirt park gifts, hills with stop sign secrets, wrist o tenders, creams, unguents and ointments, bathtubs, fogs, heads held so high, sharpened words, fighting sticks, dirt people dirt people, shellfish cactus, normandie normalcies, waitings, wonderthings, wonderings, wanderings...
Put on the ol' delusion disc and let it spin...
...at red lights, into the mirror of bits, past that one place and that other restaurant, that alley, that Ivar sidewalk- back to me...covet runneth over.
Saw it all come up in the reflection of the forlorn for lease carpet storefront, the one on Franklin just east of some other street.
Funny how it never goes the way the imagination makes it go
know'd tat, druid tat
too much time wasted on the ponder.
I'm a pander ponderer.
tre small thoughts that are best left to the past ether.
criss crossings, what if's, how 'bouts and contractions, up and dislikes; music, art, what is right, wrong, giggled and fat, none of it fits.
Shaking it, pick axing it through the bled blood. Scab upon scab bored scab...ooze still punches into the soup.
