The Bookshop Sessions #27

Appears it’s so— returned have I to the same spot from two years ago. Fighting circle seven for perfection. Coldness still holds the printing press growing on my finger tips. Holding moments between the rise and fall of sun, why is it I so desperately hold to this busy city. Longing to choke its spinning frenzy. 

A full body shiver catches this leg that rests on knee impressions. 

Bark bark bark goes the cat. 

Walk walk walk goes the thousand petaled hats blurring past

The warmth inside walks all paths. Never a straight line has it chose to guide. It unfolds much like the ten thousand footed dance among. I work less, to behold nothing but imagens of the clock made up.

If it's space that must be filled— I choose paper backs. If it's the bus ride home that must be filled— I choose to lay on this mountain back and carve into stone this mark inside.

In fear of the fate unchosen I pulled three cards from the stack, and in one moment; past, present, future lay before I.

With the question held loosely it chose to see that what must become is—an adventurer, a prince-like fellow holding a club in his rock climbing grip.

Clack clack clack goes the walking stick of the man struggling to remain haired. 

This November chill is cutting through my bone marrow. I the man holding this berry choose kindness as the target to kill. I beat the cup that dies on the flimsy table like its a drum, screaming to people passing by

5 pounds please

5 pounds please