Thursday

hear and hearing



"
Jill hears it . The hears what? Does she call, the name" yes but what she is speaking of is not the ear drum. Nor the feet of primal philosophy or its rubbing tune. Or the chune of gyre and pavement but the love of the fat thing itself, a pudding and drawer containing all the awkward pelting o f a life and more. She winks towering toward her future cutting off the spring of squirrels and rabbit hocks.

Say she takes off from the meeting . Another woman is there. she's become the church of every rummage pail.

And then she felt like an au-pair girl, a drumming dumbbeat maid.

Now if that is the thing, or rather if that is what the whore queen calls
getting back to the matriarchal thing,

she's got another thing coming.
The old bitch! the hazard of grunions and reunions. That reek busted
the pennisula. Well, it takes one to know one,
and besides she knows this.

It's part of her calibre, what the myth makes
makes her strong,
weary

no.
Not at all, that's paltry
besides shes's bested her girth
trunnioned the axle
and married her trunk to lovers pass by.



IN that tears idle as they are can't make a product go bonkers. She's fisted the sky and hopped for rain in her Hindu Indian down dress.

This cartwheel gal knows better than to spin with her top on backwards for all the rain to see
.


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If this has been prose she's removed the salt from bacon . Not so the seaway its moose and ragtime stars, or the antlers busting up a grief a pen of men
holding her down . She's bodiless to their fortitude .