Septuagenarian

Vienna. Ninety-eight years before and one day after
I was born.
There was a heave below the stairs.
He was born.
A shout.
a game.
An exemplar.
There she sat, svelte and alone.
Yesterday. All the love that seemed
A game to play. Now we need a place
to stick our prototypical members away from the
bigots of birds.
Until the person,
the septuagenarian person, resembling a taxon of adjudicate sorites.
There garbled the nonsense in logic way.
I would love to see you extrapolate that meaning,
but you shant, rather you shall interpolate the regard.
Poor Aladdin. The sequel shall make sequelae through a means
I won't disclose,
for fear of embarressing the sequel.
Shell you get the memes out
Autonoma, authority, autonoma, authority.
"Oddly enough," this recinding
Repetitious, recondite way is going to bludgeon
the sentience out of your fiber tracts.
This, until googols of chimeral ways shall find that
Life is a series of dead lines.
There was a time when things were remembered.
And now it is a time of things being forgotten.
The friend has fallen. New friends will need to be made.
Life is not a bocks of chocolates, nor a lemon-hedged bet.
Nor a madeleine cake to be baked an enjoyed.
Life is a kite unflown, ever able to reach and soar to heights
Yet never able to reach them without its wind.
The decoction of the spyglass of her eyes ever haunts me.
Me.
The winds of scrutiny and the sands of hesitance will ever follow me there.
The qualia of bitterness followed everywhere, particularly in the dictionary. From the gangly armed gibbon to the varicose veined vulture...is there anyone pinker around here?
The terseness in her jaw followed me.
The mise en scene has been set. It is kibbitz.
The humunculus sat in the spoon, jeering at me.
I could hardly stand the sun.
Then there was damage to the anterior cingulate sulcus, which
prevented going to two weddings to dance, for we each possess
only one.

Tuches.

They would sooner believe in a dybbuk than take credit for their actions.

To think that such a thing runs afoul to the fortuitous reasoning that intelligence
hath a form.
Would you rather a shooting star or a stethescope?
The carburetor stops, we get off the bus in the snow.
You would rather, truly impugn the ways of things?

You have benighted yourself in the hopes of gaining a night.
Why not enlighten oneself to the delights of what is, what has been, what will be?
Shed your insanity for Truth.
There is no room for the "quagmire of effete speculation"
within this process.
Your jalopies shall be dead by morning.
That is when the moa shall arrive, greeting your clavicle with a cheery hello.
For you have opined yourself, while I opened myself.
There shall be no more flerning!
Not like a rock, not on the couch. Nor shall there be a process of flerning
near or on the couch. No!
Apropos this shall be quite unnerving.
Believe you me to be profligate? Believe you me to be terse?
Believe you me to be over-talky and judgy?
Believe you me to be not what I am, or desire to be?
Believe you me to have wild sexual desires that over-bear friendships that I've loved?
Believe you me to be constantly upset?
Ever holding grudges? Evil. Why don't you come out and say it?

So you have said. So my heart broke for you.
So neither have I been able to continue our sometime friendship.
For I feel one thing and that is defeated, judged and disliked by you.
It is not that I hold a hatred,

The equinoxes came and went.
The appeal was ad hominem, as are many things.
And there is a lesson. Things are ephemeral.
The reality of this is all to knowed.
I am no yenta.
I do not live among the paraphinalia of head shops.
"The absense of refridgeration, a good place to store meat for leaner times is in the bodies of other huters who will return the favor when fortunes reverse."

Forgive me the malapropisms.