without getting over here -
I informed the best available evidence



the entire building tilted - a slot machine was giving birth, falling off the edge. doors and windows joining against me. two buildings park alone - abandoned - wine-soaked. it was six o-clock, I was on my knees making an offering of my back, and my arms . . . I even offered my buttons at an intersection. the telephone was ringing . . . . someone was singing, you’re dead, (relocation furniture), youre dead, (debate over rust), you’re dead. it was later (de-) than (re-) commissioned. I still had refuge in suggestions . . . bungled in the carcass of sex. my brain is shadow light vice in a million submerged ship wrecks, a crap table looking out over ranch style radiation. my vertigo, my zenith, my saran wrap. I pull the curtains and a shred of morality plays jealousy on a personal chastity refrain, or was that a plugged drain? write down for memory, with sympathetic interest, and pronounce the words; sliding glass door and four of spades.