MONOPOLE

one couldn’t count on fingers and toes the things that help the poet disappear it’s the will of a man that keeps him walking not the shoes on his feet or the feet in his shoes though both are helpful it’s just one catastrophe after another with you, isn’t it? (one must be willing to let it all get rearranged) poets, plights, people, and playing cards virtue is relative to the medium sense the same as the jar it holds counterintuition can often be the safest practice because y

How does one exist in anything less than the forty-two minutes it takes until the laundry’s done? By one, of course, I mean myself and any of the useless thoughts I’m able to squeeze through the annals of my brain. It seems to me that the process of thought and expression is a little like consuming food and shitting it out: Somewhere in between something gets digested. What are these thoughts digesting in my brain? Are they the vitamins and minerals necessary to conjure a use