Last Tuesday I Stuck My Finger into the Socket of Nomenclature and Suddenly I Was Mr. Bean. Trinity V. Fritz Lawrence
The man at the register stopped me and said, “Ghostwriters are on strike, you can’t write a check.” Outside the saints come and go with waves of nausea and barbecue breeze. The jazz of his cologne will never leave, and I strike out to be another fixture in the mess of rancid bodies. I looked at the sky and saw that it was green. I looked in your eyes and saw what you were thinking. You magnificent kumquat, you made me wish I could write love poems. So I wrote one for you. The space between Sundays became the greatest Zeitgeber since sundials, I went from shrink-wrapped Jesus bites to licking bits of myself off the floor of your car and picking four-leaf clovers on our dates. I would say I love you if I spoke Greek. I went back and stole the baked beans from the man at the register. I went into a dream, and you played music while I read the words of dead men, talking about some sort of salvation, I wasn’t
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