Episodes
Some blah, blah time.
Winter is weird again.
I had a million years to accept that I might be energetic in my personality.
Which makes things happen by accident.
Some things just move or at least hum.
Maybe me.
Episodes.
I started having them the way centipedes realize hopelessness, I guess.
Episodes.
On a Monday there shouldn’t be any door hinges left, I pried them away.
And evaporated stuff that dangles like spring’s whine.
When you start having episodes.
It’s like when a wolf learns about books somehow.
And you can’t read unless you really are the one.
In a word-daze, and he can’t really get annoyed in a human way.
It was never an accident that stuff happened like crust in my eyes.
Episodes.
I can move or at least hum.
In the cloying, glazed over way that an engine wavers.
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