have been working on some stuff together. This makes me feel like writing here as scratch pad, to say things like:
I could wait all day for the call right back, but I won't. What I wait for is more and less tangible than the trilling to touch of telephones. What I wait for goes like this: the cat's doughnuted herself beneath the desk. She has slept against your chest. She has a thing for intermittency, cold chicken, and the kind of skin that smells like olives and a kind of pine-chill aftershave. Even the bedding remembers.
3 comments:
Veace needs to talk to you about how to unveace her current writing.
Oh Veace, even at her most veace, her writing is the unveaciest thing around. But to revel, savor, to read and then lick my fingers afterwards, that's the stuff of the Veace-verse. Please, bring it on.
(And give a Brother Bird some luv, won't you?)
Veace-Verse. Luv. It.
Yeah, I'm working on a haiku. You HotEmuLuv inventors make it look easy ...
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