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Tuesday, April 3, 2018

Waxing Figure

And so much imminent in the crepuscular chill. Monday, I am slow to start. A cuff, a ludic loop. Moonday, in the dented cadillac hidden in the lilacs of a hundred freak beginnings. In the clucking light of the super blue late bloomer moon, I am a bad mood, a green wound in the trade war demanding which one takes care and which one takes it all. Which not why under the boiling blood moon lobbied by competing tho nonetheless always all ruddy impending senses of doom moons each a storied whole of standard issue complicit parts. Some mornings I wake up to find I have morphed into a boss. It is a real trial to parse out the suffering from the strategy in order to walk backwards into the woods, because that is where the dubious bosses should retreat until they can speak tree. Or they’re fired! Sob moon. As if always in advance the mysterious invisible labor moon. Some mornings I find I have morphed into an orb and am not sure how best to proceed. Though I cannot text (orbs have no fingers) I somehow know I am not alone under the pull of a whim moon my favorite bitch moon a watch the oozing gash in the next room moon--morphed or still morphing and still so much snow! And still so many monuments. Women I love are being subsumed.

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