By Max Jensen
This is the kind of thing I like to hang up. This kind of thing I never want to hang again. Somewhere near Detroit, lakes remain from glaciers. Above the negative hills, magic valleys of concrete. This little emotion, I feel it there in my breast. This new, unsettled man, walking strange and fast. The store offers so many ways to mark and release and confine. I am one of the many goals my mind has set for me. I'd reduce myself to work and preference if they could learn to trim their nails. Another passing diamond eating away the apple. Life and winter mist arrive like bored customers. May the comedian speak this Thursday into a Friday. The sandwich that I do not eat will not be me tonight.