Too strangely the birds jerk their scales.
The one who sits in the office
dreamt of birds a lot,
living for butterflies, and for pricks
a lot, too. If only today
were really quite small. Still, the pricks
need their snack. Between Identity and Supremacy
opens a surplus of negative affect. Either
you erase me now or I’ll enlarge it.
Look what they make you give.
A pointless radar of care for the slug ascending.
A reader’s migraine with your head thrown back.
June 13, 1985, at 10:01, in cloud above Rubtsovsk. Unconfirmed.