clockwork. sunday shack, no wednesday shack, or thursday shack. Bunny said today, those horses don’t have a run. For having all the track that they do, they’re kept many many hours in stalls. It can’t be that they are all being properly out and about. Bunny helped me ground into what feels blurry when I have gazed. A Racing horse? Could any horse ever know all the betting placed on his hooves? I look at them I look at them. I pet a few of them. I saw the stall half chewed down the way almost to the electric wire. I walk by the barn and see their head poke out no matter what time it is. Guendrvjsir
Current Direction & Electric Projections
Watch me become
Without written word, I am concrete. I am immovable without excessive force. A paper with no pen dents is rarely found in my pocketbook. Read it out loud, and find the flow I intended. Freakishly folly-full savant.
-An irish girl removed from her homeland
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≻: untitled post 107Caraway seeds. I’ve never seen the plant. Is it green? Come summer I hope to have open eyes to see them sprout. Caraway. Car away at the shop. I dropped it off Saturday morning dropped the key, through the slit. The car goes far, surely going and stopping, and stopping and going. For its wheels, it may spin. Or for its axels, the wheels may spin. Or for its drive train, the axles may spin. Or for the drive train, the engine surely spins. A series of rotating parts creating the body. A spiral shaped cardiac muscle. A spaded shovel plants trees well, but aside from the robotic ones ..they need to be driven into the soil by human powered force. So very asking for that spaded shovel. Some may hear our mechanical simplicities calling to be robot-ified. Though I don’t believe the shovel is shouting such things. The woodpecker prefers dead trees to find bugs in. The shovel was made for humans. The world accommodations life. The world depletes following industrialization and robot-ification.
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≻: I don’t like him
I don’t like him I say. Dreaming and imagining a place of our own to stay. Thinking about what dinner we’d have Sunday, and how it could be the same or different as Monday.
He doesn’t love me I claim. He tells me everything in his brain. Without a sugarcoat, all that he shares with me can spend hours in the rain. He says he hates to see me cry, all tear stained. It is certain that our love will never wane.
My space is too small and he doesn’t know me at all. Every moment he can, he gives me a call. I get frustrated because I have a better record and recall, so his affections don’t always land or fit in my basket snug, almost don’t fit at all. If he thinks he’ll forget, he writes it down. He wrote all of his vows. He has me as his wife and he is my gift from Goddess herself, from grandmothers ascending onward through you, wishes so powerful they dare call them spells.
May we never find ourselves too far from our well, and never acquainted with a dry spell.
Current Direction & Electric Projections 