Fim the Fool Man Failure, or; the words are assembled in different patterns and then employed without pay
my man out in Vermont hauls his syrup with draft horses and a wagon and this reminds me of a woman who was much shorter than i but could outrun me both sprinting and in marathon
every day i am aware of my own limited capability, or, when people talk about me they don’t talk at all
i ordered a handmade shirt from an artist online and we are in a pandemic even though some people think it’s all a hoax and this pandemic has brought mail service to a pace leaky and sputtering
trying to paint a sailboat while it’s up on blocks and its shelter made of tarps gets thrashed by the giddy Spring winds, gleeful with snow, howling with pleasure at our toil
yesterday i wore a different title so today you turn from me at a mountainside stream and hide your flesh as you place a dry shirt atop your galloping skin
a woman with straight black hair who used to work for a concert promoter responds to my email seeking label design help and then disappears
too needy for asceticism i fill my belly with lentils and tea and watch the clouds show off in hail and sleet and rain
i ordered a pizza with shrimp on it and it isn’t yet ready to pick up so i stoop over a wooden table and try to put words to the bubbling butterflies in my chest
i feel a bit sheepish for my morning frustrations, so i wash some dishes and hope that a clean kitchen might warmly spread its cleanliness into my smudged soul
i met a woman on a farm and later she became my roommate and still later my friend, and she met a man who became her friend and eventually her husband but before they married he and i became friends and he wrote me an email quoting a writer who seemed familiar to me yet i could not place
modern Capitalism is decrepit and moldering so i sell myself in a grant application and wait for the smell to turn sweet
a camera on a tripod points at me so i think thoughts about my soul and its tin-cup rattling desire for…escape?
it was supposed to be a silent meditation but instead i rambled on for nearly 20 minutes while others sat waiting and silent
i read a Zen Buddhist story about a man who sells his art for money and is ridiculed by other monks until they find out what he wants the money for
it snows lightly in Alaska and heavily in Texas and my man in Vermont adds compost to fallow gardens of my imagining
fictitious friends depart as distant and blunted mountain tops pinprick me not into blood, no, but joy
i keep thinking there is something i am supposed to be doing which leads me increasingly to believe that this is it; it isn’t nihilism but it is nothing
a 4000 mile distant friend talks with me for 2 hours through the computer and later in the day i learn something about the rise of an earthen moon
in Vermont i apologize many times to a friend and then years later wake up across a continent to a world in which we are friends no more
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