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post script (on tea and allusions to bukowski)
he brings me cinnamon tea with sugar and a splash of milk retreats to his spot on the other loveseat in the other room where we can see each other through buddha’s face crafted out of fine wooden beads (half of them missing, but still the eyes are clear) we’re neither of us buddhist that’s…
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dumb
it’s been a while since i’ve spoken, really. brief phrases uttered without feeling to the people walking through the great glass doors looking to me for guidance about things that i’ll forget in twenty seconds- you need me now without you i would starve there is a symbiotic contempt that keeps both parties smiling, fake…
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April Fox 