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{salty art} amy king I’m going to get my book, lose cookies and fake poem. There’s room for so much clout, I don’t know serious from a hole in the agile exile of me. No one on the train is looking at the same Loyal magazines I read, their lucid line drawings and bras painted on. These too, these pandas will have to change stops. They think the conductor has arranged a special exit for evening birds, they discuss. It simply isn’t a stand-up case of awake due to hearing happy wounds. They hurt. The outside olive’s fleeing me down the third rail, but also following reflection-like the Long Island road, the log to ride that was the year I found Crystal Gayle and her hair enmeshed through the bastard bars of Frida Kahlo. Lungs ripping, hearts in triple time double down, they save the best for real museums. I’ll report back with the rest. Relax for now. |
