Distribution Automatique

Wednesday, December 24

Notebook: May 17, 1991


The crook is the seventh priest.
But this isn't what bothers me.
What kills me is that under the current
digestive system
One must not listen to two birds at one
Two would be stone it they didn't look back
Burning a hole into the northwest curbs of them.
But such is language. And thus pain
Bangs its fists into the doors of courage
But no one answers because bravery forgot
What words to say, not having a drink in its hand
At the party it couldn't make itself go to
and thus read a book and fell asleep at 12.
The crook is off the hook now.

Looks like we'll be moving soon...
Checking the yellow pages...
Oz Moving and Storage {click here}