The heTerosex dellusion - Steven Thomas Bock

endorphins blindside you

by Sylvia Jones

It’s no small club. nearly opposable, we tread at even arms length distance a strategy, blackboard bourbon. I wish this wasn’t as important as seeing the Hot Seats. home wreckers or word count requirements, both teaching us how to chicken out. Your bronze petal unravels me into grey scale search engines, carnivalesque rearview mirrors. where & why wild cash advances. Appearance savvy , no magic donor recipients, 1,680,000 results, our annual end of August regret ruffled self fulfilling prophecies. Synesthesia prone. Fraught interaction, it’s nice to have autonomy & angst. Toilet paper convenience. Another answer to another question I might’ve gotten wrong. Rubrics don’t appeal they apply to tenacity “What Life in the Real World Costs” distractions are sacraments, us fiscal non believers woulda shoulda coulda summer cynics, our grip got mistaken as a punchline. Another arbitrary echo a long ass recovery, left eye idiom. feeling overzealous about erroneous shit. for inquires stolen sake. An ex sending snapchats from a hinged threshold. Homes not handcuffs never not never before the split. By noons encore I’ll be callus again, more nymph, guest & host. Grief settles in with costumes and props, my kryptonite is a telepathic winged squirrel in Monroe Park, a former universe, we arrive with as many losses as gains. Rosetta stone stifled. Retrospectively speaking her tone reminds me of a whining road. And no there are no detours to places worth going back to. Sundays are for belongings not baggage; cerebral matters We ain’t attempting to build a home, a curbed tolerance for obsidian exteriors. Enough glass to be professional radioheads. Be ashamed to outnumber the hustle, be mountain proud . Kodak is bankrupt and smarts are unnamed worldly objects.