January 29th 2019

January 29th 2019


She liked the poem. Frames bought for it, up on the wall in the Little Black Box like giant fridge-poetry, she says. Makes me think of George Barker, then a play came on the radio about Elizabeth Smart. Having her sends out ineluctable tentacles in search of meaning, which is what coincidence is.


The good life for a man, as Crow has taught us, is a life of coincidence. Grab chance by the slacknape skin of the neck, shake the hell out of it, and eat it.

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