Bright-Very, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy
It dresses up and dresses down, easy-iron, masculine.
Bright-Very, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy All my fingers blue-black. Then orange. Green. I couldn't hold a spoon good because I was not a lefty—so: food on me for sixteen weeks. We both thought it was uncanny that you could do that with one spinning bullet basketball pass. I should have seen it coming.
Hitchhiker, Seedvul, North Carolina, asked by the driver, "Where to?" in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy —he could've got his own bottle and I would've got mine no prob no prob never was but we couldn't've wouldn't've I guess and kept making spit brew with it going to him first and then me—and why that order—younger to older—who knows—and the last gulp never mine because he took it from me and drank it down leaving some in there but not enough to pass on.
When I would take it from him there was the problem, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy Photo taken on Benefit Street, Providence RI —and I have left my glasses on the table next to my sweating bottle of Corona and that is—isn't it?—a symbol of thirsting and insight (or blindness and fulfillment)—at last reconciled--
New Year's Eve, my brother monk, eleven miles apart from me, in his thirty-second year at Lady Mori's Garden Soto Zen Temple in Wendellton, North Carolina, sends annual text, "How was 2014?" in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy On my birth-morning twelfth that was her last, I asked her would she go with me to the lot to check my one mad skill. She brought the pastor who dealt us as a pair. She watched. She had never seen.
Greetings from Teacher Reptile on the occasion of Father's Day and the publication of the final volume of The Wrath septology in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy |
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