Me smell you out there. With these sniffers.
Cannot get away from me, you.
As you can see.
Among this here scratchy morning light.
What to you hear when you pound your head against a wall?
Bunk. Keep it up and you become a bunker.
Or paint a racing stripe on it. We don't care.
What's up there? Besides stuff?
More stuff? Or less? Stories?
Look once, look twice. No one cares.
You still don't see it.
Leave your pen light at home then.
Kinda bright, considering how dark it is.
Interesting though. (Tingly too, especially in the middle.)
Where I grew up, they called them flower petals.
Around here it's blue holes. I get it, sorta.
Painted on a wall.
Yet still happily flapping.
It Came From The Garden One Morning.
Full of color and sun.
Open Mondays thru the end of the season or until you hit dirt.
After that it's still harder than it looks, easier than it seems.
Made to your specifications. While you wait.
Fine-grained and wall-mounted in every possible direction.
Eat from a bowl. Crap on the floor. Come as you are.
All OK as long as you salute.
Eh. Not so confused after all.
But colorful. If your cones is still working.
Sometimes it turn out this way.
Recently the harbor out here was covered with linoleum, then waxed.
In the main it waxes blue, and I had onions for lunch.
Recently I have been promoted from a dwarf planet to a gas giant.
But still, still they will not let me go out alone. You? Do you like lamps?
Sometimes better than one.
Sometimes only side-by-side.
Do bush think? Do them?
Look more closely next time.
If you could say only one thing about everything, what?
Would that make the one leg box stop its hop?
On your marks. Get set.
Count down carefully from there.
Lots of times.
I need the practice.
I salute thee (or thy knees, anyway).
From inside the box.
Is not possible.
Under these circumstances.
Brenda told me not to, but I did.
Went out in the sun and looked at things. Wow.
My friend, he is.
Clean and discreet.
Up there above me, on the roof.
Doing whatever. (I don't know either.)
Waiting for me, one morning.
But I kept going the other way.
At least that's how I saw it.
Through my one open eye.
Which is about as far as I can count then.
Flowers wake earlier, look better. But can't count either.
Right there. Right here.
At the middle of things.
Say something to each other.
And maybe to me. I'm not sure.
Stand back. You can say you saw it.
Versus vice versa.
I know what you're thinking. Not much.
So just keep staring at the colors until something happens.
If you are in pane.
Or trapped by the blues.
Shot on a Thursday.
With one eye open.
It's all in your head.
Which is where, which is why, which is what?
Three things I'd like to know more about.
You get some of each.
At this place.
The reality is all wrong.
And she could never handle that sort of thing.
Are following me.
See their shadows?
One is real. And the other is.
More real. If you look closely.
Forever there. Even when.
It's not visible.
Cool in the morning light. With steps.
Leading somewhere chilly.
Creeps me anyway.
Doesn't get you anywhere. Except out of sight.
Unless you peek.
Just floating there, belligerent, with their gun out.
Seen only by me.
With clouds. And cold.
Up there, on the wall.
And I see twice of it. Boo.
A bit nippy on the tits.