The fumble is because of the trust.
—
Oh I like some EB Garamond.
The text got too wise and heighty on me.

And I’m in my own heights waiting the perfect 7
Minutes
It takes to bake crumb.
Breadcrumbs
Of more broken bread slices
Oaty.
You care much about me.
And I play TI
And Tui
In those word tile puzzle boards and boreds-times later
We have so much fun
In simple little ways
And our communication
Has gotten away from
Digital communication in the sense
Of
Call or text me.
I used to hate hearing that.

You must text me when you get home, i gotta make sure you’re safe: bitch, I don’t know you.
And you don’t know me well enough
I started saying it to many people.
Dates and so forth met online.
Just to see who would.
Awkward.
Like what are you doing after that?
Left in a rush or didn’t want to leave at all
And I sent ya out awaiting a seizure.
Stressed out.
Not who I want to be with.
Young Guys in their 20s on Jump Street
And I feel like the fool.
Your great uncle my younger schoolmate
With how oft these generations procreate around here.
Small town and everyone wanders.

Crochet and HeadLamp Blues at the songplaying now.
Resting chemistry and now straw-jumping a spray bottle
Makes me feel like I remember something about school.

Most of my superiors when I entered the force
Or any force or corps.
Said the only electricity they had lived in was the barracks.
And I’m hearing that at the end of the curtail of 50s withthe bay of pigs
Still on my mind.
In height, from purgatory of the soul.
So serious, so dismal to mention.
HellTv and odd ends and bits and conspiracy and breadcrumbs.

1 minute to 7pm and the bake on the pasta.
I hope I know how to write in purple tonight.
September so spooky.

The Oysters are Waking Up.