HOW TO SPEND THE BETTER PART OF A WEEKEND

Seven second hypnosis. Bug off, introspection, go watch another wake.

Stratified, unwilling, wrestled into combustion, a wind [that cannot be seen, cannot be bitten, cannot be heard] walks by, anxious for attention, attracting some. The shuffle is everywhere. Its touch moves all, makes noise of the quiet, fluttering the still, filling the neighborhood with fun. She raises her eye to find robins who have not seized singing, the gentle carry-on, formulas in breeze, but retreats back in another flat seven[th].  

Man on the Screen [with a pronounced leisure upon the second iteration]: Fraternities of oily-fingered men who have touched no oils today have passed judgment: the favorite wins again, so relax. And as for the enemy… 

She drums her fingers, becomes the beat. Bouncing nimble, she breaks defeat. The sun is afoot, brazen, treading on the marsh, looking into the porch, somehow looking out at itself again.

“Maybe, hey… maybe,” she spits out. “Maybe I should turn it off.”

Thus urged by Silences’ compulsions, the screen splits into darkness. Inert, shrugged out of reason, a pause is born through the sum of still-reflection and an undying devotion to the couch. Paradise [that place for the unquenched] rises, making a mess of observations. In an earnest need for pleasure, gallore is notified into the thinking world. Notarized properly. Thank goodness. The plumes are always ready for the plucking. Thank goodness, again, we all sit repeatedly on our ass’, certain in assumptions, notified late that goodwill is the door to an infirmary run by nuns keen on the wicked, inebriating without intoxicating.

“Good for you, Milk,” says her companion, roaring past on a streetcar-thought. 

“Thank you, Ali-a-baba,” she says a second too late. 

The car-street is gone, and so is she.