on the road Meeting three quarks for muster mike by sean s

)after Justine el-Khazen's not a word

To say How we use a language
pulls us and our words apart like quarks.

A drench morn
The wind becomes aeroplanes in the trees.
All that waving take me

on empty Sunday walls llsh

The Threes green is still yellow.
Elbows on the counter and watching the waitress barista's ass.

A rainy empty Sunday morning walks into the crepery. Y
I need to do those dthings I'm supposed to

do everyday.
Lisht are not supposed to live that long. Flaring Flare with check
marks, scribbles and Strike-throughs.

My jojürnal has lost its virginity thank the fuckit.
The Sunday keeps pushing out pedestriansa umbrellsta
papers twirling.
All numbers made of three, elementary
partiecles. Moody slow aeorplanes. Typing drugged through the even

somethine    sleepy    in my torso is

tossing