It would take 100 cigarettes to explain the smoke
coming out of this room, over this typewriter, past this fate; some
things don't make good language no matter how much time you have—shit.
It'd take 100 to even get started.
Like the storm: through this beaten screen door only after it
bounces off the cracked cement patio and comes racing from the sky
even before that. Make sense of that: the rain. You know what I
mean: explain your childhood.
Could call—yeah. Right.
If it can't be written—at least not here on wounded hands and
sore knees—then it definitely can't be said over a telephone. Call—Yeah,
Also there are sounds you can't reproduce—ones no one can.
You here (hear) then (them) from that exposed position, in the
middle of it, but soon, maybe even before you realize they're
there, they're gone forever. It hurts to even remember them,
never mind talk about them on some phone.
Yeah. Leave the talking to the Robin Goodfellows. Mostly just shut
the fuck up; pound your mitt.
* * * * *
Day 18 | Kelly
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