You know what I really wish people would raise? Awareness. I’m talkin’ suuuuper high up there. Higher. Higher. Okay—perfect. Thanks.
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You know what I really wish people would raise? Awareness. I’m talkin’ suuuuper high up there. Higher. Higher. Okay—perfect. Thanks.
A while ago I mostly stopped actively pursuing followers. I feel like things are more organic and happier when the encounters are unscripted.
As a result or, maybe, as a side-effect, I reached 247 followers last October. Not a huge deal, but I recall thinking how close I was to 250.
And then the deactivations started.
In some deranged parody of a grandmother on a front porch, you all sent me back and forth from 247 to 235 or so at least 4 or 5 times.
But now it’s been reached, and no impetus can derail the achievement.
The moral of this story is that I lose a meaningless numerical stat every time you deactivate. So don’t. ‘Cause it also makes me cry. The thought of you deactivating, not the stat.
Fort-like,
the homophones stack
to abstraction.
“See a spirit?
Spear it, quick.”
And if I must explain,
limbs detach
and won’t go
near it.
Signed release,
a piece unsettled,
their mettle rises
stripped.
Upon review,
rewinding what mattered;
her narrow vines
round wrists
(hanging writs).
Runaways fain
pencilling pavement, unsteady
as treetops eclipse
their heady maize.
A kiss,
delighting legs unsteady,
planar fates align
and pencil crude matter,
unsteady and narrow.
The pavement shatters,
runaway.
Feste's Lute 