Neighbors who were mild all of a sudden burst into 24-pack types with friends clogging their patio at four a.m. and we are left deciding upon things that we might try, to snuff out the activity without inducing problematic reflex. There is this gland appearing to act up. When all we wanted was to breezeway our small lives into a comfort. No one's fighting, it is just the hour lacking in music and the full assortment of cans left in the middle of the table. Move, countermove, and move again. People milling around to find out where they might hold still. There is the language barrier which dribbles fear across the bibs of the routinely competent who shrivel when it's time to talk with hands. However you might read this filter, it's upstaged by future possibilities. Good morning, say the innocents. Good morning, say the sunbathers. Good morning say the sperm and egg that have not met. What kind of temperature might we be talking about. Hamstrung by others' moods and templates, prestigitators and commandments strung together in a fray of fitness meant to tide us over at the onset of an oligarchic sentencing.
Joystick and its recent disappearance, gender studies, practicing the hymns in English then reverting to the Latin
Sheila E. Murphy | Safe Places
Contents | Mudlark No. 8