Searching for promises in the snow. Heavenly angels brought you to me before. Here and there; enough, to speak prose. Rhyme without reason. Yet I have no quills and the typewriter was broken stuffed into the garage along with a stained yoga mat. In doubt, I find it wonky. I find it odd. I find it like I’ve found my life before. A whole bunch of useless crap laying around. The last haul became too fond and now I want space, type of thing. Pick back up on other things. I’m all alone and the war has been waged and now I have backup for two weeks that I’m going to make two weeks special. Holiday drizzle. The effect is no side effects for affect of my life. I need it to be strictly homey and casual with smoke breaks inbetween, plenty of nicotine. Something not sure or horny. Out of towners and I just want a husband to hold me. But instead I got one cat that lives on a branch or behind a fence and runs to me when I call him. Well trained and well heard. The groomer can’t get the crusties. And my eyelashes are falling out if I don’t find another way to get eye drops. This is a ramble song don’t you know. Iambic pentameter, cocaine colored snow, I want the holidays to feel like home. Silent time, quiet time, and all I want to do is work. For once and for all. Not a vacation. I just joined someone else’s and I have no shame in, it.
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