I. Edgar's Great Great Grandson.
All of this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental".
I get out back when green gets going don't even mind the cold. The winter mix was just here fixed us we were bitter cold. We were stuck for better or very cold. When you dive in clear water and it's a spring with water was just a piece of ice awhile ago. We persevered with all of it creating warmth with sticks. That's what I call my body. Sticks attached to hips. As well to her such a jewel in her prime. Call her furnace really. She does the pilot light. She sticks to hips on Sundays. We go to church tonight. I think she's feeling guilty by Thursday afternoon. It gets chilly by the bye and in the evening too. Friday night is her day off and Saturday is mine. I like to bowl the little balls remind me of a party. I once was in a big ball roll went south real fast one time. A finger stuck into the hole. I said that never again will I wrestle a big ball. So Sunday is our day of rest, apologies, etc. She tells me I'm a polymorph. I tell her she loves weed. She tells me I'm an innocent. I tell her thank you very much. She is so sweet sometimes. We are all stretched out by Sundays. Placated, polished primed. Love to see the preacher. Pretend the devil's inside. Come out, come out Red Rover. LIke that more boogie style. When we were little Walt, the Disney came into the box we lived in. Near the road that's gone. Not my wife she lived away around the corner up. Never thought about her much her diapers once blew up. I am quite her elder and she is quite my mirth. Together we remember all the things we should be doing here on earth. When I need a hip replaced she comes and gives me hers. She tells me it's a bother. I tell her do I care? Not much. So thank you all for coming. I saw a new blog today. It's called Slingshot Letters. Photos from way back. And some recent poetry. That's my brother's place. I am a writing baby. Babies are writing too. Anybody below sixty is a baby far as I know. Sunday she is sorrowful because she has been so bad but I say forgiveness and she says I'm innocent or more like maybe five. But then she starts laughing on Sunday night and we have delightful yearnings. Sticks picks up some tricks. The lord is still in heaven and I am just in mine. Slingshot coming over. Says don't write just breathe like you are an astronaut who eats a lot of green cheese. We go on about the way she treats me. Like she's God. Everything is God so maybe but I doubt she is. More like the devil maybe and her note says volunteer. She gets to laughing sometime as I just said we do. It really is a party. I do body doubles too. It's all about the evening when the sky gets dark. Edgar Allen's holiday Jan the 19th when he was supposedly born. He whispers to me sometimes. "Oh that boy is done."
I get out back when green gets going don't even mind the cold. The winter mix was just here fixed us we were bitter cold. We were stuck for better or very cold. When you dive in clear water and it's a spring with water was just a piece of ice awhile ago. We persevered with all of it creating warmth with sticks. That's what I call my body. Sticks attached to hips. As well to her such a jewel in her prime. Call her furnace really. She does the pilot light. She sticks to hips on Sundays. We go to church tonight. I think she's feeling guilty by Thursday afternoon. It gets chilly by the bye and in the evening too. Friday night is her day off and Saturday is mine. I like to bowl the little balls remind me of a party. I once was in a big ball roll went south real fast one time. A finger stuck into the hole. I said that never again will I wrestle a big ball. So Sunday is our day of rest, apologies, etc. She tells me I'm a polymorph. I tell her she loves weed. She tells me I'm an innocent. I tell her thank you very much. She is so sweet sometimes. We are all stretched out by Sundays. Placated, polished primed. Love to see the preacher. Pretend the devil's inside. Come out, come out Red Rover. LIke that more boogie style. When we were little Walt, the Disney came into the box we lived in. Near the road that's gone. Not my wife she lived away around the corner up. Never thought about her much her diapers once blew up. I am quite her elder and she is quite my mirth. Together we remember all the things we should be doing here on earth. When I need a hip replaced she comes and gives me hers. She tells me it's a bother. I tell her do I care? Not much. So thank you all for coming. I saw a new blog today. It's called Slingshot Letters. Photos from way back. And some recent poetry. That's my brother's place. I am a writing baby. Babies are writing too. Anybody below sixty is a baby far as I know. Sunday she is sorrowful because she has been so bad but I say forgiveness and she says I'm innocent or more like maybe five. But then she starts laughing on Sunday night and we have delightful yearnings. Sticks picks up some tricks. The lord is still in heaven and I am just in mine. Slingshot coming over. Says don't write just breathe like you are an astronaut who eats a lot of green cheese. We go on about the way she treats me. Like she's God. Everything is God so maybe but I doubt she is. More like the devil maybe and her note says volunteer. She gets to laughing sometime as I just said we do. It really is a party. I do body doubles too. It's all about the evening when the sky gets dark. Edgar Allen's holiday Jan the 19th when he was supposedly born. He whispers to me sometimes. "Oh that boy is done."
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