here's my attempt to decipher (and alter to a poem) something written on a pink index card that got wet in my shoulder bag:

you've always been a help to me
hanging out over the broad flat
night on a friday: the sagging moon
competing, up there, with the suburb's underlight
spilling tears, clear milk.

the card (which certainly did not read what i have typed above much at all) also said:

"drawling hum"
and has a note from my dad to buy a kilo of coffee, to my sister.

ave verum corpus/corporal
a chapter called "humble pig."

he not only sold his soul. he incorporated, and made a share issue to each of the employers, corporations and discourses that had a hold on his life. as well as an issue of preference shares to God, the holding company in the sky, including a right of pre-emption.

i suppose you could also call this "the history story."
death is the house that we built. some called it progress.
it left traces in excel spreadsheets. someone in a suit said, "i think we should reschedule the apocalypse. do you think we could make that next month, instead of next century? would that be do-able? how much notice will the bigwigs need? what does the statute say?"
i said, "i love you." that's what women have been saying for years, like they're supposed to. i'm very good at it. it's blinkers: keeps your from looking side-to-side, or underneath yourself, down at the foundation stones, the flagstones:
they're banknotes.

so strange and so human that people want to watch the same story again and again -
the boy meets girl story.
meanwhile, underneath all this, another masterstory is going on. the death story.
[a secret underwater rip that underscores millenia]