oops(?) i did it again

somehow, midnight is nigh; i have written myself halfway into a story whose exposition, exegesis, and elocution have grown increasingly murky. i find myself looking for climaxes under rocks, and chipping away at pebbles of sand with icicles.

in how many languages might one prevaricate?

(un, deux, trois...)

yesterday there was a pornographic platypus in Miami, and i found myself sore-footed and transit-less, trying to survey acres of art between bouts of rain and headache. there was a malice in the clouds, and we waited for the weather to break in the shadow of a run-down Days Inn while passers-by shucked and jived in innumerable languages. between the German and French and Spanish and Portuguese, one could hear the building moan as the winds came ashore, whispering of 1972 and the days before high-rise cocaine couture invaded South Beach...

words are nothing

more than tangents

splayed into oblivion.