From Under the Mat Where Sat the Cat

Extricate, but not too much, unfaithful digger of concordances, let be the whole tasty clutch of it, rhyme of I’m, not, awake, child, bequeathing willow trees beside a stream. Not only old ravines but Euclid Avenue, my first escalator (Hal-ease Department Store) were woven in the mat where sat the cat. I say Department, was a sexual story because Mother’s store it was, her bailiwick, father absent in a void called “Work.” Precarious. Don’t try get it all in. Bailey’s was another tasty store, such glitterglass. And later learned that testicles was store, alaya-vijnana. O dark dirty Cleveland, the Viking Club, the mysteries! All I want is loving you and blank-blank blank-blank blank-blank It’s only unmentionable because there’s no end to chasing it the tale of it and you and sustenance. Hundreds are fleeing, but not hurricanes. Violets, I always brought her wild violets in spring. Breathless romanzas secret in the Flats. Percolate the spiderwebs. Not what you expected, eh? I could bite you back, you furry thing, but you’d never understand.