Matty Matte Modge Podge

I enlisted the forces within to conquer the Whitestone Proper quelled to imagine the musings of such Sea Birds, rolling their plastic eyes at the pigeons of Washington Square. Where are the leaves, the squirrels raged, tender tips of fondling fingers folding and rolling their acorn nuts. I might just squeeze his little cheeks at the sight his nose, so squeeky and rabid. I scurried for the ground, found yellow drips of picasso's blood boiling over the brim of the Hudson River Bandit, steaming down shore towards cities edge. If I looked twice and slowly, the world might just edge to the end near battery park, might just turn down 90 degrees and allow us to slid down to China. The sea birds down here don't have patience for me, and the pigeons have stolen one of their glass eyes, so I am sure my stay is overwelcome and my welcome over easy like the eggs scrambled in the Diner on 43rd. I searched for Pizza, 33rd, 32nd, 31st, like the clock ticking forward, the clock ticking forward

I turned and left, rose pedals falling, charging the ground like rain water being pricked by each falling drop; now puddled and pregnant, the moment collapsed and I was gone. If it was Tuesday, the skyline ignored it, as wind sheeted by like worn linen over a freshly made bed. I thought it might be her bed, clouded and wet, electricity scuttling, lights flickering in a mimic of bright eyed filament mistaking Morse code; that I could watch the bulb fire on and slowly fade back to black. I remember now, how much darker it seemed, after starring intently into the dying glow, my eyes blinded for moments. In a later moment, I saw the clouds tear apart, light shone, but still grayed, and lit to a blueish hue. I felt my lips, chapped, and heard under the rolling tires, the crumble of some loose gravel. I parted my thoughts like the sky, let the road veer the car, and loosened to the night. Somewhere detached, between nervous and cold, my toes met wet sock and I knew you knew I should have br